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Angel sighed heavily as he stopped and looked from the paper in his hand to the car parked in the spot numbered 34. "I still can't believe I have to drive this."
The small, box-shaped yellow car had four doors, implying that four people were intended to fit inside, but Angel's expression as he eyed the vehicle showed a marked skepticism that the concept and the execution were going to match up.
"I still cannot believe that you convinced me to wear this clothing," Illyria replied, grimacing as she tweaked the sleeve of her nondescript gray sweater. Her hair and eyes were still blue, contrasting vividly with the sweater and black jeans, but her face was pale and human-looking. "Yet I manage to endure it without sighing every five minutes as though the experience were equivalent to my universe crumbling around me."
"If we wanted to make it through customs without somebody dragging you off to a room somewhere for a strip-search, you had to pass for normal," Angel said. "You want to change back now, go ahead, but we'll draw less attention this way."
"I comprehend this; thus the lack of constant complaint." Illyria looked pointedly at the car.
Angel just stared sadly at it.
"You don't have to drive," Connor said from behind him, where he was standing with Spike and their collected luggage. "I can do it."
"No way." Angel unlocked the trunk first, dropping his suitcase in and shoving it to the back so that there'd be room for the rest of the bags. "Most of the cars are standards here. Plus, they drive on the other side of the road."
"Yeah, I know," Connor said, rolling his eyes. "I've seen movies. And thanks to your little shopping spree at the airport, I've read more tourist handbooks than you can shake a shillelagh at." He held up a large soft-backed white book.
"Three pages in the back of the Zagat's Guide aren't going to teach you what it's like to instinctively drive on the opposite side of the road," Angel answered, stepping back as Spike tossed a battered leather duffel into the trunk.
"Oh, give the kid a break," Spike said. "When was the last time you drove on the left?"
"That's not the point." Angel looked momentarily flustered, then recovered and turned to Connor. "Besides, have you ever even driven a stick?"
"Well, there was this one guy at school, but..." Spike said in a painfully bad American accent.
He was rewarded with a blue and gold collegiate backpack flying vaguely in the direction of his head; Spike caught it with a snicker and tucked it into the trunk beside Angel's suitcase.
"What do you care if I drive?" Connor asked Angel. "It's not your car." He looked immediately as if he regretted what he'd just said, but Angel's expression changed and he tossed the keys to Connor.
"Fine," Angel said. "Drive. But I call shotgun."
"I'd like to point out that I'm letting you take my unlife in your hands," Spike said dryly, patting Connor on the shoulder as he strolled past him. "So try not to crash this thing."
Illyria dropped a sleek, black, wheeled travel bag into the trunk before slamming the lid shut. "It seems unlikely that any harm could come to us while driving a vehicle of such little power." She seemed oblivious to Angel's answering scowl.
They got in, and Connor adjusted the seat and checked the mirrors before starting the car. He looked down at the gearshift, then glanced at Angel next to him. "It's an automatic."
"Yeah, I know," Angel muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's all they had." He looked at the dashboard with a grim expression. "I can't believe we have to drive around in this thing."
"Enough. I do not wish to listen to another speech about your regrets," Illyria said from the back seat.
"Yeah, well I didn't want to have to sell my Viper to finance this trip," Angel said, and Spike and Illyria both sighed and looked out their windows. "If Gwen had left us a number, we could at least have - "
"Asked her to play Sugar Mommy?" Spike finished. "Can't deny first class would've been nicer than coach, but what's done's done. Leave off bitching about the car already."
"You always said fighting the good fight came with sacrifices," Connor pointed out, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street.
"But I loved that car. It had leather seats!" Angel said with more than a hint of sulkiness in his voice. "And a button you could push and it would turn on and purr. Like a kitten. You just wanted to reach out and stroke - "
Connor glanced at him again, raising one eyebrow. "You know, you might want to avoid the animal imagery. It's really not working for you."
"He's right," Spike said. "And more importantly, it's not working for me." He squinted out of the window at the overcast late afternoon sky. "Do miss the necro-whatsit glass, though. Mr. Sunshine decides to make an appearance, Blue here's not going to make much of a window shade."
Illyria gave a delicate snort.
"I just don't know when traveling got so expensive," Angel complained.
"Welcome to the twenty-first century," Connor said, grinning.
"Thanks," Angel said. Then, seeming to make an effort to rally his spirits, he added, "Hey, at least we're here."
"In the twenty-first century?" Spike asked. "Some of us have been here for a few years, mate. It's great; they've got video games where you can steal cars and pick up hookers, now."
Angel frowned. "No, in Ireland." He looked out the window. "From here on out, everything's going to go according to plan."
The woman behind the desk at the hotel wore a green sweater and a blank expression. Looking at the computer screen, she shook her head as she tapped at the keyboard. "I'm very sorry, Mr... Angel? But we've no record of your reservations."
Rocking on his feet, Angel studied the ceiling of the sitting room, white plaster supported by thick oak beams. "I remember when inns used to have thatched roofs."
"And aren't we lucky that they don't anymore," Spike said as he picked at the carved detail of his chair. "I bloody well had enough rain, spiders, and other things drop on me from thatching over the years, thank you very much."
"Let's hear it for modern architecture. We're just lucky to have found another place to stay on such short notice." Connor raised his coffee mug, took a sip, and then frowned at it. "Too bad they haven't heard of Starbucks."
"Oh, I'm sure we'll find one of those overpriced beaneries if we wander around enough," Spike said. "We'll get a mix of the old and the new - beer that doesn't taste like piss water and an actual roof over our heads."
"Speaking of which, shouldn't we be wandering around?" Connor asked
"We should not hesitate in the execution of our plan," Illyria said. She pointed out the window at the early evening sun, now peeking back at them from between two cloudbanks. "Wesley has an advantage in time, and it grows with every hour."
"Huh." Angel frowned at the piece of lace he had picked up from the mantle. Looking up he saw that the others were staring at him. "Made in Taiwan."
"Alert the media, and, speaking of alerts, that plan Illyria just mentioned?" Spike made a rolling motion with his hand, as if trying to convince Angel to get on with it.
"I know. We need to find Wesley," Angel said as he replaced the doily. "When I was a kid, every woman who had any illusions about being a lady would spend her afternoons making lace."
"I have some contacts, you know, that might help us find things if we actually looking for things and not discussing knitting," Spike said.
"Our first priority should be to locate Wesley," Illyria stated.
"I'll second that," Connor said as he placed his empty mug back on the tray. "I guess it's pretty obvious that once we find him there's going to be a fight."
Angel turned his head sharply, frowned at Connor, and then began pacing.
"We should probably assume that ol' Wes has got a trick or two up his sleeve," Spike said.
"Can you kill a dead man?" Connor asked.
Angel stopped abruptly and leaned against the window frame, looking outside.
Frowning, Connor threw an apologetic look in Spike's direction. "Sorry. I meant killing a dead guy that wasn't a vampire."
"I knew what you meant," Spike said as he frowned at Angel. "Neck snapping didn't work on Johanna, but the explosives seemed to do the job."
"Even if customs weren't an issue with explosives, we don't know where we'll find Wesley. Blowing up Wolfram & Hart is one thing, but what if he's in a nursery school or something?" Connor asked.
"We should acquire specialized weapons that will be efficient and ensure success," Illyria said. "We divide into two groups: one to locate Wesley and the other to seek out a weapon to destroy him."
"Fine," Angel said, turning to face the others. "Connor, you're with me."
"Sewers - they're not just for surviving the daytime anymore," Connor said, as he followed Angel through a door marked 'Maintenance' and out into a large, dimly lit room. "We could cover a lot of ground tonight if every place you want to check is as well-connected as this one." He swept his flashlight in a low arc and was rewarded by the glare of reflections from the numerous glass-walled displays in front of them.
Angel shielded his eyes with his hand. "Watch that, would you?"
"Sorry. Forgot about the vampy eyesight." Connor played the light across the floor and followed it to the nearest display case.
"Was thinking more that we don't want to freak out the security systems if we can help it, but I could do without the Ardagh Chalice getting burned into my retinas for an hour, yeah." Angel followed him over and tapped lightly on the glass.
"Speaking of freaking out the security systems?" Connor coughed.
Angel shook his head. "Every three-year-old who's ridden through here on his dad's shoulders today has left fingerprints on this glass." He pointed. "That one might be a nose-print, actually."
Connor lifted his flashlight and focused its beam at a non-reflective angle into the case. Inside, a double-handled silver cup gleamed on a dark stand. Gold filigree and colored studs ringed the bowl, with similar knot-work on the stem above the flared base. "Discovered in 1868," he read from the display. "After your time, right?"
"Depends how you look at it," Angel replied. "They found it about a hundred years after my time, but it dates back to the eighth century."
"Is it mystical, something Wesley might come after?" Connor asked, reading further down the placard attached to the display. "Ancient Druid treasure?"
Angel trailed his fingertips across the glass, tracing the shape of the cup. "Not Druid; Christian. Being used to hold the host was probably as mystic as this thing got."
"Not seeing Wes flying all the way to Ireland to take Communion, somehow." Connor moved onto another case, his interest in the chalice waning as quickly as the light from his flashlight when he moved it off of the display.
Angel stared at the cup for a moment longer, then joined Connor. "Probably not; still, if there is something ancient and dangerous that he's after, the National Museum's a good place to start looking."
"Except we started with the General Post Office," Connor said.
"For maps; the streets might not've changed that much since I was last here, but the buildings..."
Connor grinned. "Uh huh. And then the Trinity College Library..."
"We couldn't visit Dublin and you not see the Book of Kells," Angel told him. "Besides, they did have a mystical collection at Trinity; not my fault I didn't know they'd moved it."
"In 1965," Connor pointed out. "But no, that was cool; I liked seeing where your tattoo came from. I was actually kind of thinking about - "
"No, you weren't," Angel told him firmly.
"Getting another one," Connor finished. Angel looked hard at him for a moment; Connor looked right back.
Finally Angel shook his head. "You just said that to make me make this face, didn't you?"
Connor shone the flashlight under Angel's chin, casting shadows upward onto his expression, and grinned. "Maybe. Anyway, just saying this seems more like a walking tour than a manhunt, so far. I'm kind of surprised you vetoed the Bram Stoker Experience." He dug a brochure out of his back pocket. "After all, it's a 'uniquely different, most interesting, brilliantly, entertaining, interactive, educational and very scary adventure'..."
"So's a walk through West Hollywood after dark, which you can get without the seven Euro entrance fee and the penny dreadful propaganda." Angel frowned, pointing at the brochure. "That man wouldn't have known a real vampire if one walked up and bit him on the - and you just said that to make me make this face."
"What, I can't show an interest in my cultural heritage?" Connor responded, still grinning. "Seriously, though, is Wesley any less likely to be hanging out at the fake vampire experience than raiding the National Museum of Ireland for..." He shone the flashlight on the case in front of them. "The Tara Brooch? I get the feeling this stuff is all too famous to be part of some dark, secret magic; it'd be like stealing the Declaration of Independence."
Angel rubbed his jaw as he glanced down at the small gilt circle struck through with a matching metal pin. "No, you're not necessarily wrong. I doubt he's after anything this well-known. Might be something more obscure in one of the other galleries, though; it wouldn't be the first time a museum didn't have the first clue what they'd got their hands on."
Connor looked skeptical but nodded, and they moved around the display and further into the shadowed labyrinth of galleries.
At a freestanding display case of bronze jewelry arranged around several modern illustrations showing how it was likely to have been worn, Connor paused and swept his flashlight over the text. "This is about the guy from the statue in the Post Office. Coo- ok, does the 'great mythic hero of my people' have to have a name that starts with 'coochy'? Did no one tell his mother this was a bad idea?"
"It's pronounced Coo-hull-in, and she didn't give it to him," Angel said, studying the artwork. "He earned it by killing a fierce attack dog when he was a kid, then offering to take its place until he could raise up a new one for the owner; they called him the Hound of Culain after that."
"So this guy's the great hero of Irish folklore because he killed a *puppy*?" Connor asked, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "Sorry, killed a dog, raised a puppy."
"It was a really big dog. With sharp teeth," Angel answered somewhat defensively. "Anyway, no. That's just how he got his name. He was famous for being an unstoppable warrior, defender of the region. Sort of the Irish answer to Achilles or King Arthur."
"Yeah? Did he have magic powers?" Connor considered the illustration in front of them. It showed a man kneeling down in front of a giant with glowing yellow eyes. The figure towered over him, axe raised as if to chop off his head. "Did he slay the giant?"
Angel shook his head. "He did take on a dragon single-handed, though, and ripped its heart out through the throat."
Connor nudged Angel with his shoulder. "So he was your inspiration for last year?" The two exchanged a slight smile.
"Let's just say I can sympathize with him," Angel answered. "There was always somebody or something coming after him. Cuchulain was constantly being challenged, not only because he was the nephew of the High King Conchobor - or Connor, thanks to the English - but because the great warriors were being tested." Angel leaned against the wall, looking at the display. "Never a second to rest."
"You named me after a king?" Connor asked, his grin widening.
Angel shrugged. "Yeah, well. Thought about going with his nephew, but then you'd have grown up and hated me for giving you a name that started with 'coochy'."
Connor snorted. "Thank you for not adding to the list of things I need therapy for. Much appreciated." He looked back at the display. "So did the giant kill him, then?"
Angel shook his head. "It was another challenge; he could cut off the giant's head if he'd let the giant do the same to him the next night. Nobody else was brave enough to follow through, but when the time came, Cuchulain laid down his head." Angel pointed to the display. "And passed the test; he lived. His honor saved him."
"Sounds like he led a charmed life," Connor said.
"Not always." Angel's gaze went flat, as if he wasn't really looking at the artifacts before him anymore. "He had to kill his foster-brother, Ferdia, who trained with him and fought by his side when they were growing up."
"Turned evil?" Connor guessed, catching Angel's eye.
"Not exactly; they ended up on opposite sides of a war." Angel moved away from the display and headed further into the museum. "Better come on," he said with his back turned. "We're not going to find anything in here."
"Right. Sun should be done playing hide-and-seek for good in a few minutes. Let's get this show on the road." In one of the bed and breakfast's overly rose-patterned bedrooms, Spike bounced up from where he'd been sitting on the corner of the bed. "You and me, on a mission from God."
"Angel is not a god." Illyria sounded very definite about that fact. "I am a god. We are not at all similar."
"Former god," Spike corrected her. At her glare, he grinned. "We can say you're resting, if you like," he added helpfully. "Anyways, I didn't mean literally; should've known better than to play movie-quote tag with Rip Van Winkle."
Illyria's eyes unfocused, and then she gave a rare, genuine smile. "The Bluesmobile. Is it your wish that we name our vehicle that?"
"That cheap piece of imported tat?" Spike snorted. "It'd be a sacrilege. And since when did you turn into the all-knowing cult film guru?"
"I am a - was a god," Illyria said, with the faintest hint of smugness. "Omniscience - " She hesitated as if searching for a phrase, then finished carefully, " - comes with the territory."
Spike raised an eyebrow at her. "Omniscient, my ass; you're raiding the memory banks."
Illyria shrugged but looked speculatively at him. "Does it disturb you?"
"Good job on sounding like you actually care," Spike said. There was no mockery in his tone. "And yeah, but don't let that stop you. Your brain now, stupid to waste it." He looked toward the doorway. "Speaking of wasting brains, and time..."
"Indeed." Illyria began to walk to the door but paused as Spike remained where he was. "Why do you linger? The means to defeat Wesley is not contained in this hovel."
Spike nodded but still didn't move from where he stood. "Yeah, I know. Gimme a sec; I'm thinking."
"Of what? You said there were people you knew in this place who would assist you. Let us go to them immediately."
"Trust me, we're on the same page, pet. Not in the mood to lollygag about contemplating the doilies the way Angel seems to be," Spike said, reaching for a newspaper left open on one of the narrow beds. "But we're not going to get far if we run around like headless - oh, yes!" He rolled up the newspaper and smacked it against the palm of his hand, looking jubilant. "Couldn't have timed it better."
"I do not underst- "
"Footie match. Tonight," Spike said with a positively beaming grin.
"I still do not - "
Spike walked quickly to the television and turned it on. "Come on, come on... has to be a pre-match report on one of the local channels..."
"You are supposed to be finding your informant," Illyria said. "How is this not... lollygagging?"
"What?" Spike looked away from the TV. "Oh, yeah... pass me the phone, will you?"
With a forbidding look on her face, Illyria stepped pointedly away from the old-fashioned rotary-dial phone on the night table.
Spike sighed and edged towards it, the remote in his hand and his attention on the screen. "No, no, yeah, that's it. Perfect. Ooh. Going for the classic four-four-two, are you? Fair enough, might as well..."
Illyria stared at the fuzzy picture of blue and red shirts superimposed on a green rectangle. "A plan of battle?"
"Something like that." Spike pulled out a creased piece of paper from his pocket and dialed a number, glancing between the paper and the television.
"Hi. Looking for a bloke who used to work with Kurik until he got decapitated and landed in the soup. Eh? You sure? No - " Spike rolled his eyes. " - not a comment on what goes into your curries, mate; wrong number, sorry. What? Well, piss off to you too!"
Spike jabbed at the button to hang up the phone and avoided Illyria's eyes as he dialed again, taking more care this time.
"Who is this? Oh, right. About time. Name's Spike. Not from around these parts but - oh, you have?" Spike straightened up and all but preened. "Right. Need to set up a meet."
He side-stepped a cross-armed Illyria and moved closer to the television, where the manager of the local team was being interviewed about their chances that evening. The man was sweating and red-faced.
"Yeah, face-to-face," Spike continued. "Not something I want to discuss on the phone, if you get me. How about we make it somewhere that we can both feel safe, blend in, get lost in the crowd? Eight tonight at - what? Say that again?" Spike gave Illyria a beatific smile, clapping his hand over the phone. "He can't, because he's going to the game. Oh, well, if I must." He removed his hand. "You know, that works for me, too. See you there. East stands? Got it."
Spike tossed the phone onto the bed and turned his attention to the television again.
"Sorted." He smiled with satisfaction. "You know, I don't think old Angel's got his head in the game here, but we're not like that are we?"
"I am not," Illyria said.
"No, you and me, we're..." Spike waved his hand airily and then frowned. "Why is he leaving Sedgwick on the bench? Best defender he's got!" He shook his head. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Focused. We're focused."
Illyria snorted and stalked to the door, yanking it open and exiting into the hall.
Spike followed her after a last glance back at the TV, the newspaper in one of his hands, car keys in the other.
At the side door that led outside to the parking lot, Illyria pointed through the paned windows to the car, which was bathed in the light of a sun that was on its way to setting but still strong enough to sizzle.
Spike groaned as he stared at the vehicle. "We're going to miss the bloody kick-off!"
"You will need to ride in the back, if we are to leave now. Give me the keys."
"Not a chance; since when can you drive?" Spike took off his coat. "Let's make a dash for it. Maybe you can hold my coat over me while I steer or something."
Illyria frowned at him. "As you say, the brain is mine, now. It would be stupid to waste the knowledge therein. Surrender the keys."
Spike blinked at her, surprised, but smoothly ricocheted off onto a different tack. "Right, but look; you don't want to been seen driving something this pathetic," he said coaxingly. "I see you as more of a luxury, top of the range god. If I still did naughty deeds - which of course I don't, and Angel doesn't get to hear about this one, got it? - I'd steal you one when this is over. Take you for a joy ride. You'd like that."
"Something with speed and power." Her chin lowered by a fraction.
Spike pressed home his advantage. "You can pick the color. Of the car I'm not going to steal."
"Blue."
"You know," he replied, "I just knew you'd go for that. Think we're mind-melding or something?"
"I do not think it is likely." Illyria stared at him intently, her light-blue eyes glittering. "But perhaps we might test it. Of what am I thinking now?"
"That you still want to drive?" Spike said, arching an eyebrow and looking resigned.
"Indeed."
"Which bit of 'no' isn't translating, just out of curiosity?" Spike asked as he pushed open the door.
"The part where I do not achieve my wish."
Spike gave her a surprised smile. "Was that a joke? Because it was close. Good on you." He gave the slowly setting sun a final glare and sighed in defeat. "Fine, you can drive. Just to the match, mind. And any scratches, dents, or casualties and you're on your own, got it?"
"Do you expect my fawning gratitude?" Illyria demanded scornfully.
"Nah, don't run before you can walk," Spike said. He wrinkled his nose. "Tell you what; let me off the next wanting to disembowel me speech; no offense, but that kind of turns my stomach."
"It would," Illyria said dryly and swept past him into the street.
"Was that another - God, it must be something in the bloody water!" Spike yanked his coat up over his head again and made a run for the car.
Wesley stood in a cobbled alley not large enough for a cart, let alone a car. His brows drew together as he glanced from the paper in his hand to the painted sign over the heavy oak door.
A woman in a smart business suit and long wool coat stepped past him and grasped the large iron handle. "Lost?"
Wesley smiled. "I believe I'm in the right place. St. Andrew's Parish, Drisheen Alley, number four and a half?"
With a shrug, the woman pulled on the heavy door. "Pub of the Thingmote; this is the place."
"Yes," Wesley said quickly. "I just - " He paused. "Drisheen is black pudding, isn't it? I'd associate an area by that name with butchers and abattoirs, not a law firm."
Tilting her head, the woman let go of the door and offered a toothy grin. "Really? And what would the real difference be? Thingmote is where the Vikings laid down the law, and drisheen is made from lamb's blood. At first they may not seem like they go together, but when you know how to follow the pattern..." As her voice trailed off, the woman ran her fingers over the crudely carved molding framing the doorway, tracing a knotted line that ran through representations of various animals.
With his eyes, Wesley followed her progress through a wolf, a ram and a hart. He inclined his head and stepped up to the door, opening it. "Allow me."
"Ta," she said, stepping into the lunch crowd. "You'll find what you're looking for between the bar and the kitchen."
Wesley looked in the direction she pointed and saw a doorway between the polished wood of the bar and the busy kitchen beyond. Above the door was a carved plaque with less stylized image of the animals in question, woven around a stylized W and H.
The woman leaned in close to his ear and spoke loud enough to be heard over the din of the pub. "You'll want to lose any black iron buttons, or you'll never pass."
"Thank you," Wesley said. "I was prepared for that. This was just not the metal detector that I was expecting." He headed towards the doorway and with a nod at the barman stepped through the portal. His stomach lurched and gravity shifted; instinctively, he reached for the doorframe to steady himself.
To his right, the kitchen with its aproned chef was gone. In its place was a starry night with wisps of mist floating above a bog. Wesley registered the wooden frame of the doorway, still solid beneath his hand, and held tight to it while he slowly turned around, back into the building.
He found himself in what seemed to be the same pub room he had just left, except that it was now empty save for the barman and a man sipping a pint at the back table. The barman slid a pint of dark stout down the slick surface so that it stopped in front of Wesley. Picking it up, he frowned first at the glass and then at the room.
Purposefully, Wesley headed towards the old man. "I'm from the Los Angeles office - "
"I know who you are and where you're from. Do you know where you're at?" the man asked.
"One of the oldest offices in this dimension. I have to say that I was expecting it to have experienced a renovation or two, and perhaps be a bit larger," Wesley said, sitting down.
The man slapped a weathered hand against the planks of the table and threw his head back in a belly laugh. "Now, lad, have you not heard? It's never about the size; it's about the magic. Drink up."
Wesley caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head sharply. A ghoulish piece of art hung on the wall: a nude man being tortured on a rack. His pain-filled eyes were startlingly real. "And it is interesting magic, isn't it? No iron?"
A small hiss escaped the old man. "Iron's way too heavy a thing to be flying betwixt and between the worlds. The Fair Ones don't like it." The man leaned in, winking. "Best to try honey and milk or perhaps some of this good stout." Lifting his glass the man took a long pull on the dark beer. "Does that solve yer problems?"
Pushing his own stout towards the man, Wesley asked, "Not entirely. For what I need I suspect that a little milk and honey won't do the trick. Perhaps there's an expert in the back room I could speak with on the matter."
"All business. Typical English. The local brew too rich for yer thin blood?" The old man tutted.
"Not at all," Wesley said. "I simply don't have a hundred years or more to be lost in another world."
"Ohhhh." The old man leaned back in his chair, giving Wesley a nasty grin. "So very smart, aren't you? You could try the back room, but remember to hang onto your head."
The thunder of hooves erupted out from the door that should have led to the kitchen. Just beyond it, Wesley could see flickers of an armed band of blue-painted warriors charging through the mist on foot and in chariots.
"Perhaps I'll stay here," Wesley said. "Now as to my business - "
"Wheeling and dealing in numbers so big. Be sure you check this horse's teeth before you lay your money down."
Wesley didn't quite see the movement in the picture this time, but he could tell that it had changed, that the agony on the man's face was worse. "I'm on a timetable, and I'm well aware of the price." He glanced to his right, where a shadow formed just beyond the arched doorway. The shadow moved and swirled.
The old man chuckled grimly as he sipped at his pint. Lifting his head, he fixed a piercing gaze across the table. "Just because you've got the gold don't mean this horse won't buck you off at the first turn. I'm being a friend by telling you to take your fancy suit and fine wool coat back across the ocean."
With the flick of his wrist, Wesley tossed a small ball of light through the doorway into the shadows. A sharp keening pierced the air, but Wesley kept all his attention focused on the old man. "I said I'm willing to pay the price."
The floodlights illuminated the turf of the football field, washing over it and leaving it exposed for what it was: tatty around the goalmouth, the turf worn thin and churned to mud in places. For all that, as the two teams walked out of the tunnel, a rousing cheer greeted them from a crowd who, by the sound of it, had spent the long hours before the eight p.m. kickoff getting drunk, either in anticipation of a need to celebrate or as an advance start on drowning their sorrows.
Spike sauntered along the terraces, his eyes sparkling. "Do you know how long it's been since I was at a match?" he said.
"I neither know nor care." Illyria gazed around her and then stepped closer to a man with a gigantic foam hand. "Why do you carry that? What purpose does it serve?"
"Ah, Illyria..." Spike began to say.
The man, face flushed and stinking of ale, beamed at her genially. "Why, it's a bit of fun, acushla, no more, no less. Without it, I'm just one of the crowd." He waggled the foam hand, with its single upthrust finger, managing to make the gesture relatively innocent. "But with this, aye, they'll see me right enough, and if it's on the telly maybe the wife will see me, too, and know for once I told her the truth about where I was."
Illyria tilted her head. "It gives you power," she said slowly.
The man shrugged, turning his head as, the toss taken, the whistle blew for the kickoff. "If you say - oh, have you no eyes, ref! Foul!"
Spike winced. "No kidding. Took his feet from under him. Like ruddy hell he was going for the ball."
Illyria nodded at the man, who now had his back to them and was singing lustily, the large fake hand swaying in the breeze. "I wish to have that item of power."
"Over my undead body." Spike crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. "We're here to meet somebody, Illyria. You're already blending in seeing as you're a nice shade of blue, just like the home team - "
"As is that man over there," Illyria said, pointing to a reed-thin man muffled in a long overcoat. He was bald, his skin a complex pattern of white over blue that - as he twisted around, like he could tell that he was being watched - turned out to be the team's logo of a snake, writhing across his face and over his scalp.
"That's not a man," Spike said, already moving towards him. He raised a hand in greeting, and the not-a-man raised one back. The palm of his hand, unlike the rest of him, was streaked with bright red. "Fetner demon," Spike explained. "Paint job's running; he'd best watch that. His natural color's not a good one to be tonight."
Illyria studied the football field, where red shirts and shorts faced off against blue shirts and white shorts, and smiled. "It would seem so." Her gaze flicked to the small number of supporters for the away team, a splash of red in a sea of blue, and her smile widened. "They are out-numbered and will surely perish."
"Not outnumbered on the field, love," Spike said, sidestepping a spilled puddle of beer. "Unless they get someone sent off. And with Reardon playing for them, my money's on the Reds. Got five-to-one odds on them winning. Bit past his prime now, of course, but he scored a hat-trick three times in one season for Sir Alex. Did him proud." He cleared his throat. "Not that you need to mention the money bit to Angel. He's got this thing about betting. Very close-minded at times."
Illyria managed to convey scornful indifference with a single glance. "I do not care how you fritter away the meager pittance you possess."
"It is meager, isn't it?" Spike said glumly. "Wish I'd known there was a rule that the good guys had to be poor."
They reached the demon, who eyed them suspiciously, sniffing the air before relaxing. "You'll be Spike, I take it?" He had a somewhat disconcerting brogue and elongated earlobes that twitched nervously as he spoke.
"That's right," Spike replied, his attention mostly on the field. "Pass! Kinnear's wide open, you glory-grabbing idiot!" He shook his head. "No wonder Man U sold him. Not a team player."
"My name is - "
"Yeah, hang on, mate. Let's just see them take this corner... oh, what are you like?"
Illyria tilted her head. "The one in the red shirt with the numeral nine affixed to the back - "
"Center-forward," Spike interrupted. "What about him? Besides him being a tosser who wouldn't know what to do with the ball if it was handed to him on a bloody plate, which it just about was. Lovely curve Simmons put on it."
"He is receiving something from the man in black."
"Yellow card," Spike said with a sigh. "Had a handful of the keeper's shirt and nearly throttled him. God, I hate people like that. It's supposed to be the beautiful game. When United plays, it is."
"Do you want to start singing Three Lions and see how fast you can get your head kicked in?" The demon sounded annoyed. "I'm Sorn and you - correct me if I'm wrong - were supposed to be looking for help - Penalty! Penalty! By Krevkar's holy hooves, handball in the area, he has to give it, so help me...."
"Nah, it was his shoulder," Spike said, studying the replay on the large screen at one end of the stadium. "Ref'll never give - God, he bloody well is! Wanker."
Sorn cheered in satisfaction, then choked as Illyria's hand went around his neck.
"I find this tedious," she hissed. "Tell us what we wish to know, or I will snap your neck and leave your body for the carrion-eaters."
He struggled in her grasp, his eyes widening.
Spike tapped her on the shoulder. "Think the cleaners would get to him first. Looks like he's got the message, anyway; best let him loose."
Illyria released her grip but continued to glare menacingly at the demon.
"She's - " Sorn sputtered and glowered at them both. "Is this how you ask for information where you come from?"
"Not always," Spike said. "Good way of making sure I'm told the truth, though."
"Why would I lie?" Sorn seemed genuinely puzzled. "You're William the Bloody; is it likely I'd want you annoyed with me? After what you did to the village of Crossleigh not ten miles from here?"
Spike's mouth dropped open and then a slow smile spread across his face. "Well, well. Still got a bit of a rep over here, have I? Crossleigh, you say?" His smile faded suddenly, and he hunched up his shoulder defensively. "Oh. That. That was mostly Drusilla's idea. Her birthday present."
"My father told me of it," Sorn said, giving Spike a doubtful look. "I'd pictured you as taller somehow."
"Charming," Spike muttered. "Look; we're after this bloke: English, skinny, dark hair, got a tendency to shoot, stab, and poison his nearest and dearest. Not the kind of tourist you want, trust me."
"Sounds like he'd blend right in with half the locals round here," Sorn replied. "Why d'you care?"
"Because he's up to something," Spike said. "Something evil, and we have to stop him. Only problem is that he's ever so slightly dead already - and he works for some folks pretty set on making sure it's just slightly. Any pointers on something mystical that might come in handy for getting him all the way there?"
"Stop him?" Sorn frowned. "Not help him?"
"I'm - oh, sod it," Spike snapped. "I've got a soul now. Forget slaughtering the innocents; these days it's all about helping little old ladies across the streets." He got in Sorn's face, scowling up at him. "Still take anyone in a fight, though and the fangs are as sharp as ever, so don't go thinking I've gone soft."
Sorn shrugged. "I'm not going to argue with you, if that's what you mean. I'm a tolerant sort. Soul, no soul, slaughterer or savior; all one to me."
"Why do you aid us?" Illyria asked suddenly. "How does it profit you?"
The demon chuckled. "I get a commission," he said succinctly. "See, this is the way of it; I can't be helping you. Not a chance." He held up a hand, scarlet flesh glowing in blue-smudged slashes across his palm. "But I know where you can get all the help you need. They'll sort you out, right enough." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of cardboard.
A rumble, sullen and enraged, came from the crowd, and Spike and Sorn turned as one to watch the action. One of the away players was scuffling with his opposite on the blue team, and his teammates were trying to tug him away. An elbow hit a nose. A retaliatory fist hit well below the belt, and the shrill blast of the whistle was lost in the ensuing melee.
Illyria's eyes widened as she stared at the mayhem spreading across the field... and through the stands, as small scuffles began to break out in areas where red and blue co-mingled. She smiled fiercely. "I begin to understand your fondness for this activity."
Spike pocketed the card that Sorn passed him and gave a long, contented sigh.
"The beautiful game..." he murmured.
A baby was crying as Wesley entered the run-down apartment. It didn't stop at the sound of the door opening; in fact, its wails only increased as he followed its mother over to a tattered couch and watched her sit down. The woman glanced tiredly at the closed bedroom door that did little to muffle the infant's cries, but she made no move towards it.
"I don't know what to do," she said. "I'm not after believing that superstitious muck like my sister and that woman she brought by here, thinks she's some kind of witch. But... the doctors can't find anything wrong with him. Now they're thinking I've done something to him, they might take him away from me, and I just - " She burst into silent tears. After a moment, she said softly, "I just want him to stop hurting."
"To have your child whole again, you must act," Wesley said quietly. "If you'll let me, I'll do the difficult part." He watched the woman as she stared at the floor and fretted with the piece of cloth in her hands.
Shoving her hair behind her ear, she nodded and stood up, smoothing her skirt with her hand. She took slow, hesitant steps to the bedroom door.
The infant's crying became impossibly louder, so much so that a loud thumping began on the ceiling and a booming male voice shouted down, "Can't you even shut that kid up for a minute, Maura?"
When the young mother froze in her tracks, Wesley stepped past her, briefly squeezing her arm. Opening the bedroom door, he found the white plastic crib, decked with cartoon animals in pastel colors. On the bureau was a photo of Maura and her happy, healthy baby.
"That woman my sister brought round - she's right, isn't she?" Maura hung back at the door.
"She is, indeed." Wesley grimaced at the sight of the child, then quickly moved to wrap the infant in the blankets.
"Please, I just want my baby back," the woman said. "I couldn't - I can't do what she said, though. What kind of mother could do that?"
"One who loves her child enough to risk everything for him," Wesley answered, gazing steadily at her.
She swallowed hard, looking down at the bundle in his arms, then slowly nodded. "Can you help us?"
"I can," Wesley said as he walked up to Maura, who stood in the bedroom doorway, blocking his path.
Wrapped in a pale blue blanket, the baby squirmed and howled. Beset with a new round of her own tears, his mother stepped out of the way.
As Wesley reached the front door, Maura rushed up behind him, however. She reached out to touch her child, but her hand stopped short of the blanket. "Did I do something to hurt him? Why is God punishing me like this?"
Wesley opened the door and then hesitated. Turning to Maura, he said, "You're not being punished; you've done nothing wrong."
"Then why is this happening to us?" She reached out once more to touch the blanket and this time laid her fingers upon her son. His cries rose to shrieks, and she snatched her hand away, her face crumpling, tears springing free again.
Wesley looked down at the baby, but his gaze was distant, shadowed. "Sometimes... the world is more full of weeping than we can understand." He turned away from her, moving out of the apartment, and didn't look back.
Surrounded by the sobbing of both mother and child, Wesley walked down the deserted corridor.
Angel and Connor wandered along a city street, still bustling even after dark. Connor stepped aside to let two laughing teenage girls pass by, eyeing them - or more likely the shortness of their skirts - appreciatively as they walked away.
"Liking the Temple Bar district better than the museums, I take it?" Angel asked with a faint grin.
"It's like Westwood or something. Except with better architecture," Connor remarked as they made their way down the cobblestone streets. "Not counting the giant palm tree sculptures in the middle of the sidewalk." He pointed to the aforementioned sculpture and the knot of people who were gathered round it, laughing and chatting.
"There's a tavern around here somewhere... I think it was over near Cow's Lane. I wonder if they still call it Cow's Lane." Angel craned his neck, trying to get a better look at their surroundings, over the crowd of passers-by. "It was right between the butcher shop and - "
"Um, Angel, there's like a hundred bars here," Connor pointed out. "Can you be more specific?" He glanced around.
"The...hmm. The Whistling Cat?" Angel frowned. "No, that was in Connemarra. There was one here, though. Best place to pick up the local gossip on who's doing which dirty deeds to who. What the heck was it called?"
"You really think it'd still be here now?" Connor asked.
Angel glanced across the street at the blaze of neon pub signs adorning an otherwise traditional brick building. "Maybe not. Hard to say; some things have changed, some still look... well, not the same, but familiar at least."
"We could check around, anyway," his son said agreeably. "Beats hitting yet another used bookstore; we must've been through ten of them, and every museum in town, and no sign of Wesley. Nobody's even seen him." Connor shook his head. "I think we need a new plan."
"That's only a handful of the bookstores in this city, Connor. There's a bunch of little private library collections we can check tomorrow, too," Angel told him.
Connor sighed. "My point is none of the ones we've checked have turned up anything; you'd think if he's looking for something in places like that, somebody'd have heard..."
Angel was already moving through the crowd, though, muttering as he walked. Connor had to step quickly to catch up with him. "There used to be that coffee house over by Trinity College where all the rich young idiots who thought they were masters of the dark arts would gather in the back; should've checked it while we were there."
"That doesn't sound like someplace Wesley would hang out these days," Connor said with a doubtful frown.
"Course it wasn't really a coffee house back then," Angel continued as if he hadn't heard. "People didn't drink coffee like they do now..."
Connor stopped in the middle of the street. "Angel, no."
Angel turned around. "What?"
"It's not that simple," Connor said, running his hand through his hair. "We're not going to find Wesley by checking the mystic arts section of every Waterstone's in the city, Angel. He doesn't operate that way anymore, unless he's purposely trying to get found, which he obviously isn't since we haven't found him. He doesn't need to. He's not the same guy he was when he worked with you."
Angel stood completely still, a startled look on his face. "He's Wes. Who else is he gonna be? It's not like he's possessed. His loyalties may've changed, but he hasn't. Not who he is, not how he thinks."
"Why not?" Connor asked, his arms crossed over his chest. "You've changed. I've changed. Hell, you changed the world so that I could be someone else. Why does Wesley get a free pass?"
"He doesn't get any free passes," Angel replied. He started to pace back and forth on the street, barely dodging the pedestrians. "But some things stay the same. You don't know him like I do."
"You don't know him at all," Connor insisted. "Not this Wesley. You're looking around for some guy who hasn't existed since I was a baby. You're looking for your friend, and he's not that. Not now."
"You think I don't know that?" Angel said roughly, his hand clamping down hard on Connor's shoulder. "Did you think I missed the part where he killed Dru, killed Gunn, tried to kill you?"
"No, I didn't." Connor pushed Angel's hand off him. "Which is why we need to be looking for that guy, no matter how much you may wish he didn't exist. And he's more likely to be signing off on a blood sacrifice somewhere than swilling cappuccino."
"Believe me, I know what I'm looking for." Angel turned away from Connor and stalked off into the crowds toward one of the bars.
"I hope so," Connor said quietly, watching Angel disappear.
Parking his car at the edge of the wheat field, Wesley carried the now silent infant through a gate and down a long row of grain. As he looked ahead, his mouth formed a thin, tight line. The narrow swath of trees that bordered the field was composed of heavy knurled trunks of oak and yew. Even to Wesley's untrained eye, they appeared far too old for any stretch of trees along a cultivated patch of land.
The path into the trees was slippery and sucked at the soles of his shoes, which were better suited for a boardroom than a hike. Despite the treacherous ground, Wesley stayed on the trail even when the ground to either side looked more stable. Behind him, the threatening sounds of wood knocking hard against wood followed his unhurried steps. Wesley's gaze stayed steadfastly straight ahead.
He emerged from the trees into a clearing next to a river. Wincing at the light of a bonfire, Wesley didn't miss a step as he approached a shadowy human figure. A small, dark creature, furred but moving more like an insect than any mammal should, darted from behind the dark robes and charged at Wesley, who paused only to deliver a well-aimed kick. With a yelp it ran off into the trees.
The stranger stepped closer to the fire, tossing on a small log that sent a shower of sparks leaping high into the air. The light from the fire provided enough illumination to show that the cloak was a rich blood red trimmed in gold embroidery. The hood fell back of its own accord, revealing a woman with ebony hair and eyes that shone with a golden and distinctly alien glow.
"You're late," she said.
"I am no such thing, Keir. Do you have what I want?" Wesley said, stopping quite a few feet away.
"We would see it," Keir hissed, stepping forward.
Wesley remained where he was, pulling the bundled infant closer to his body, his right hand moving closer to the opening of his overcoat. "I asked you a question."
Keir's smile was simultaneously beautiful and ugly: white even rows of teeth that somehow gave the impression of being fangs, every single one. Reaching under her cloak, she pulled out a small velvet pouch, shaking it. "I have it, for all the good it will do you. Now do you really have the coin I seek?"
Pulling aside the blanket, Wesley stepped up so that the fire illuminated the thing in his arms, showing it to be a monstrous parody of a baby. The twisted limbs were mottled brown and had more in common with the ancient knurled trees of the adjacent forest than with a human. Its pupil-less red eyes glared at Wesley as the child squirmed to be free.
"You gagged it?" Keir's laughter was made up of music and cruelty. A scrap of dirty cloth was tied so tight that blood dripped from one corner of the thing's mouth.
"It was a two hour drive, and I was not about to spend it listening to the wailing of a changeling," Wesley said.
Keir tutted, but there was no sympathy in her eyes. "Is there no pity for the poor lost child?"
"There is, for the actual child," Wesley said, smacking Keir's hand as it reached for the changeling. "This unnatural thing has only one use: to be bartered for the real child."
"And is that what you expect to get from this, one poor lost human child?" she sneered.
"You know better. The mother didn't have it in her to do what must be done to get her baby back," Wesley said. "The changeling would have withered and died soon. Her child is already lost."
Stepping to the side, Keir made an elaborate gesture with her hand, revealing a small wooden cradle. "So very few humans have the strength to walk in the dark."
Without hesitating, Wesley laid the changeling in the cradle and cut the gag, which allowed it to wail. With her toe, Keir set the cradle rocking and began to croon. The cries of the changeling faded as it drifted off to sleep. Wesley's eyes glazed over at the sweet song, his eyes fixated on her face. Keir's hard mouth spread slowly into a smile as she continued her lullaby.
Snapping his head around, Wesley reached under his coat and pulled out a short fireplace poker, swinging hard at the cradle. The black iron made an ugly sound as it connected with the wood, creating a barrier across the changeling, who once again began to scream. Keir jumped back with an inhuman shriek.
"I'll take my payment now," Wesley said. "We both know that you can't touch me or this thing until the iron is gone."
Keir hissed at him but approached the fire. She began to chant; the wind whipped up dirt into Wesley's eyes, but he held the poker steadily over the cradle. Shielding his face with his free hand, Wesley squinted beyond the growing maelstrom surrounding the fire. Dust devils formed into shapes made of fallen leaves and shadows, melting almost immediately back into the greater swirl of debris.
Opening the pouch she held in her hand, Kier began spilling a fine powder into the flames, causing them to leap and flash blue and green. With a hum that built and built until it became an unearthly scream, Kier blew the last of the powder from her palm into the fire.
Wesley instinctively tried to duck from the rush of magical flames that engulfed him. Never moving the poker from the top of the cradle, he doubled over in pain.
The fury of sound and light faded. With a sudden intake of breath, Wesley slowly stood up straight.
From the other side of the fire, a grin spread wickedly across Keir's face. "It is done."
Wesley nodded, "It is." Lifting the poker from the cradle, he began backing away towards the path in the woods as Keir made her way back to her wailing prize.
Keir toed the cradle closer to the flames of the bonfire, setting the changeling to screaming in a voice so piercing that Wesley found himself bending slightly, as though there was a great weight pushing down on him from above.
"Cry and cry and cry, poor thing," Keir chanted and danced around the fire. "Let your true parents come for you and put back what belongs in this little bed."
Wesley's steps were slow and pained, the pitiful shrieks of the changeling beating him down like a weapon. Out of the top of the trees a silvery light rushed at the fire with the roar of a jet engine. Holding desperately to the poker, Wesley tried to cover his ears - but suddenly all sound momentarily stopped.
His ears popped painfully as he stood up. When sound rushed in again, Wesley heard only the crackle of the fire and the cries of a normal child.
Keir reached into the cradle, pulling out a fat human baby, its pale flesh glowing white in the firelight. With soothing words, Keir ran blood red nails gently over the infant, lifting a tear from the child's cheek. "What magic we'll make, little one."
Bringing her lips delicately together, Keir blew on the tear, which transformed into a stream of shimmering powder. As the sparkling dust landed in the fire, the flames flared into blue and green shimmer. "Oh, for me you will cry buckets and buckets of magic." She slowly carried the baby closer to the fire.
Turning away, Wesley hurried down the path, stumbling and sliding in the mud. He made no effort to cover his ears and block the screams of the human child.
"Angel," Spike said from the back seat of the car, "you were out late last night. Digging up old friends?"
From the passenger seat, Angel turned his head towards the back but didn't look directly at Spike. "It's really not necessary for you to talk, unless you want to explain what happened to the car. The rental car."
"Look, Illyria and I did our job. We met our contacts, got our info, and took care of that annoying sunblock issue." Spike ticked off the accomplishments on his fingers.
"And should we assume the gigantic blue foam finger in our room had something to do with the blue spray paint all over the windshield?" Connor asked.
"You will cease - " Illyria stopped short and raised the palm of her hand to her head. Lowering her voice, she continued, "I was poisoned, and your buzzing drives nails through my skull."
"Where exactly did you and Illyria go last night?" Connor asked Spike.
"We met my contacts," Spike said. "We could only get what we needed by going to a match and to the pub afterward."
Angel and Connor both looked back as Illyria hissed and glared at Spike in a way that made Connor flinch. Turning his attention back to the road, Connor leaned forward, trying to see the road through a narrow stripe of clean glass in an otherwise blue windshield.
"Love, it is not my fault that the blueshirts won and everyone decided that you'd needed a pint," Spike said.
"All I've got to say, Spike, is that these contacts of yours better pay off or you'll be out in the sun cleaning this car with a tooth brush." Angel let out an exasperated breath as he sat back, folding his arms across his chest.
"Yeah, or we could go with a car wash," Spike said. "I hear they have 'em even in the auld sod these days. Indoor plumbing, too. Anyway, it happens that these informants are actually good, and they were in a good mood because their side won. The place we're going is the source of all information - pool of the five streams, hazelnuts of wisdom, and a bunch of other mystical rot. I suspect we'll have to be polite and respectful for some ancient power."
Connor pulled the car into an empty space under a tree.
Peeking through the streaks of blue spray paint, Angel looked at the plain red brick building. "This is it?"
Spike threw his door open and stepped into the shade. "This is the place."
Everyone exited the car, joining Spike on the curb. Angel frowned at the building. "This is looking less then mythic."
"Like we can talk," said Connor as they walked up the path. "It's not like every place in L.A. looks like an ancient temple or a small corner of a hell dimension."
"Right you are," Spike said, holding open the glass door into the building.
Angel scratched at his jaw. "Yeah, but this is Ireland."
"Cease this complaining," Illyria snapped and stepped through the doorway. Connor followed her in, pausing to give Angel a concerned look. Spike looked at Angel and then inclined his head towards the interior.
"All right, fine," Angel said, moving towards the door.
Spike nodded and stepped in, which allowed the door to swing shut in Angel's face.
Opening the door again with a glare, Angel stepped inside to find the others standing in the small reception area of an open plan office. Cubicles stretched off into the far corners of the room, filled with employees dressed in business casual-wear all conversing over headsets as they typed into the terminals on their desks.
"...simmer it on low for 20 minutes..."
"...have you tried uninstalling and reloading the program?"
"...oh, no, no, that will be brilliant on no-wax floors..."
"Spike - " Angel started. "This isn't - "
The woman at the reception desk shook her head and motioned for silence before continuing with her advice. "... I'm sorry, but decapitation is the only recommended method for Hycatarth demons. Have a... better day."
Lifting one eyebrow, Spike gave Angel a smug look.
Tapping a button on her phone, the receptionist removed her earpiece. "Sorry about that; we're short-staffed today. How may I help you? Would you like employment applications?" She opened her top desk drawer and began pulling out pre-printed forms.
Spike ran a finger over the nameplate attached to the cubicle wall. "Hello... Delores. Nah, we've come for information, Ducks."
"Ah," Delores said, frowning. "I'm afraid we don't handle walk-ins; mucks with the call reporting statistics. Might I suggest the public library?"
"We've come a long way," Spike said.
"All the way from California," Connor added.
Angel started for the door. "This is pointless. Let's get back to work, finding Wesley."
"Should we find him, we are still without means to ensure stopping him," Illyria said irritably. "That is why we are here."
Stopping, Angel stood stiffly, his hands cupping lightly into fists. "The lady says she doesn't take walk-ins."
"Look," Spike said, "this isn't your run of the mill kind of question. It involves demons and magic and things they don't talk about in the library--" Spike paused, shrugging. "Well, at least not most libraries."
"Well, not the children's section, perhaps," Delores said. "You are from rather far away..."
Connor stepped up to the other side of the counter. "And no library cards," he said, smiling winsomely at her.
Her hand fluttered in front of her chest. "Well, I suppose I might be able to manage one question," she said.
"You will tell us how to defeat an enemy who is already dead." Illyria stepped between Spike and Connor to address Delores directly.
"That's an awfully broad topic; could you be more specific? For instance, I assume that because two members of your party are vampires, you have that subject area covered," Delores said, gesturing at Spike and Angel.
"Not a vamp. Dead lawyer," Spike said with no small disgust in his voice, thumping the counter with his closed fist. "Well, dead executive."
Delores looked from his hand to his face.
Casually, Spike opened his hand and wiped the spot that he had just hit. Clearing his throat, he stood up straight. "I mean, that's something isn't it?"
Nodding, Delores sat at her computer and clacked away at the keys. "It helps. Was he killed specifically to become undead?"
"Uh, no," Connor answered uncertainly.
"He was stabbed during a magical battle and bled to death. We are uncertain of the method of his reanimation," Illyria said.
"Wolfram & Hart and some kind of contract are involved," Spike added.
Delores paused and looked wide-eyed at Spike. "Can you give me any details about the contract?"
Spike and Connor both shifted uncomfortably. Spike sighed. "We know more or less jack about it."
Delores tucked her hair behind her ear and typed in more information. "That will make it more difficult, this not being a straightforward undead situation. Can you tell me anything about what magical protections he might have?" she asked.
"Well, uh, he doesn't have to breathe. At least I don't think so," Connor offered.
Delores' hands froze as she slowly turned from the screen. "Look, I'm trying to do you a favor here, but if you can't offer me any more details than that - "
"The Plain of A Posse Ad Esse," Angel said loudly enough to not only stun Delores into silence but also several of the nearby employees who were in the middle of phone conversations. He glanced around, not making eye contact with anyone for more than a moment. Finally, Angel looked down at Delores, who was staring back at him, open-mouthed.
"The Plain..." she repeated.
"Whatever's going to kill him has to work on the Plain of A Posse Ad Esse." Turning away from his companions and the receptionist, Angel walked across the lobby and stood in front of an uninspiring watercolor.
Connor looked from Spike's quizzical expression to Illyria's thoughtful one before crossing the room. "Angel?"
Delores shook herself and turned back to her computer, all business again. "Well. That certainly narrows it down, at least. There are several items that might do, but the closest is the Firtar Dagger." Hitting the return key several times, Delores finally sat back and watched the printer as it began to hum.
"That was..." Spike looked from Delores to Angel's stiff back. "...easy."
"Aye. Not hard at all," Delores said, pulling the paper off the printer and handing it to Spike. "'Course, getting the thing may be another story."
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Angel said, looking around the tourist trap he'd just stepped into.
The requisite bell over the door was actually an electronic box that played the first few measures of Danny Boy loudly and far too fast. Angel winced when it repeated its ring each time one of them pushed the door open wide enough to get inside.
"Wow," Connor said. His eyes were wide as he took in the room and its contents.
On the shelves was everything an excited tourist could possibly want as a souvenir from a trip to Ireland. Irish bath salts were displayed next to a row of soaps with frolicking sheep on their labels. Celtic knots adorned pens, pencils, key chains, travel mugs, whiskey flasks, and green-ruffled infant bibs. The smell of cheap perfume was heavy in the air.
"Can't imagine why the locals were crossing the street to avoid this place," Spike said with a snort. There was a couple near the back studying t-shirts, their white athletic shoes and flat Midwestern accents clearly marking them as tourists, but otherwise the shop floor was empty.
"Need a paperweight?" Connor asked and tossed a chunk of glass at Spike, who caught it and grinned.
"What the hell is that?" Angel was frowning.
Connor looked over at the paperweight. "I think it's a pig."
"I'm surprised it's not a shamrock," Angel said. He was still frowning as he looked around, trying to take everything in.
"Oh, they've got those, too," Spike said helpfully, gesturing at a shelf of the things before handing the pig back to Connor.
"This is... art?" Illyria's nostrils flared and pinched as if she smelled something more unpleasant than the scent-memories of tired, sweaty foreigners.
"Well, they're... decorative." Connor offered the pig, which was made of both clear and green glass, melted together, to her. She looked at it with her head tilted slightly to one side but didn't take it.
"They are for holding down paper?" Illyria asked.
"Only hypothetically," Spike said. "Don't think anyone actually uses them for that."
"Hey, what about this?" Connor put the pig back on its shelf and moved to a rack of shirts, pulling out a black Guinness t-shirt that said 'Size Matters.'
"I do not understand," Illyria said. "Of course size matters as a measure of power. Why would one wish to inform the world of what it surely must already know?"
Spike looked like he was more than happy to explain, but Angel jostled him with one shoulder and gestured at the counter. "Come on."
They made their way across the room, which was so packed with displays of merchandise that they found themselves having to step carefully to avoid knocking things off the shelves. One wall was dedicated to crockery that looked more like it was made of plastic than of china, and there was a section with cheap knock-offs of traditional instruments, strung with yet more plastic. Everything was adorned with either a shamrock or a knotwork design.
"How can anyone buy this stuff?" Angel asked, clearly perplexed, as he and Spike stepped up to the counter. Illyria and Connor hung back, trapped behind a display of piggy banks that sported pipes, pots of gold, and jaunty leprechaun hats.
A woman in a green apron, curly black hair drawn back from her face, emerged from the small room behind the counter, brushing off her hands and making a beeline for them.
"A fool and his money," Spike muttered, then spotted a green plastic lighter and picked it up. "Huh, could use one of these."
"We're not here to shop," Angel said, slightly under his breath, since the woman had managed to navigate her way past a stand of plastic shillelaghs to where they stood.
"Hello. Is there something I can help you with?" she asked. "We've got a special on light-up shamrock necklaces this week; they delivered an extra gross of them."
"Gross is the right word for it," Connor said quietly. Angel and Spike both turned to look at him, Angel wearing an annoyed expression and Spike an amused one.
"They run on batteries," the woman said, pushing a small button on the side to demonstrate. The necklace started to flash irregularly, then began to keen a faint but familiar tune that was more electronic wheeze than music. "It plays Danny Boy," she added.
"Oh, is that what that is?" Angel gave her a pained smile. "I don't think we need any, but thanks. We're actually - "
"What about a travel mug?" The woman held one up. It was bright white plastic with a faux metal lid and had a green shamrock with gold trim around it on the front. "Handy for those long commutes."
"We're just visiting," Angel said.
"But when you get home, you'll want something to remember your holiday by," the woman continued.
Angel was looking confused. "We don't commute," he tried.
The woman opened her mouth to say something else, and Spike cut her off. "Look," he said, peering at her white-and-green nametag, "See-oh... er, Sho... "
"It's Siobhan," the woman said.
"Why you micks can't use 'H's like normal people, I'll never know." Spike dropped the lighter he'd been holding onto the counter and leaned in. "So it's a good thing I don't give a bright green plastic crap. We're here for the dagger."
Siobhan's eyes narrowed, her voice deceptively light. "We've some plastic daggers in the back," she said, gesturing. "With the children's things."
Spike shook his head. "We're not after a toy."
"The Firtar Dagger," Angel said, managing to join the conversation again.
"Oh, right," Siobhan said. "I'll just get that for you then, shall I?"
"Yeah, that'd be..." Angel frowned.
"You don't really think it's that simple, do you?" Siobhan crossed her arms and looked at them, unimpressed.
Spike looked at her, then at Angel. "I don't know. I think we can take her."
From the back room, four demons appeared, all of them armed and none of them under three hundred pounds. They were tall and broad-shouldered, their skin gray and their teeth protruding from their mouths.
"Or maybe not." Spike glanced behind him to get the lay of the land. "Although we've got even odds, at least."
There was a squeak from the back of the store, where the young couple had noticed the demons. They bolted from the shop through the fire door, which was closest, Illyria watching them go impassively before turning back.
Siobhan vanished behind the demons as they started to fan out on both sides of the counter.
"Here we go," Angel said and leapt over the counter to tackle one of the demons before it could get past its companion. Illyria immediately rushed past Spike to attack the one closest to her, hitting it in the face and snapping its head to the side.
Behind Angel, Connor ducked a swing by one of the creatures and came up hard, punching it in the gut. It staggered back half a step but seemed otherwise unaffected by the blow and swung its weapon at Connor again. Again, it missed Connor, and this time the end of its axe hit a display of talking leprechaun toys, knocking it over in a cascade of green felt and high-pitched 'top of the morning to ye's.
"Come on, you ugly gray Paddies; is that the best you can bring?" Spike, grinning in vamp face, hit his opponent hard enough to knock the weapon from its hands. He moved sideways, trying to get close enough to snatch the axe off the floor, but the demon jumped forward, grabbing him around the waist. The two of them fell onto the table behind Spike, and it collapsed under their combined weights.
"Spike!" Connor crouched down to avoid another blow and threw himself to the right, rolling underneath a table and jumping to his feet, grabbing the demon on top of Spike around the throat.
"Can't... choke him," Spike got out as the demon hit him in the face a few times, seeming to ignore Connor's presence. "It's a Thmark. Lungs are in their legs!"
Connor wrenched the Thmark's head to one side, then saw that the one he'd been fighting before was about to join the fray. He hurled his weight to the left, throwing himself and the demon he held to the side - just in time for the second demon to trip over Spike and land on all three of them.
On the other side of the room, Angel had gotten his hands onto an axe and was hacking at a Thmark, a fountain of blood soaking the wall and making the floor slippery. The demon that Illyria was fighting stumbled back behind the counter and hit the slick tile floor, its limbs windmilling before it fell, both it and Illyria disappearing from view as she bent to hit it again.
Angel completed a swing of his axe with a gout of blood from a lumpy gray head and a hard crack of his own elbow into the cash register on the countertop. "Damn," he muttered, rubbing it.
Pulling one of the fallen demons off of Connor, Spike laughed at Angel. "There's a reason why they call it a funny bone," he said, then failed to duck in time and got punched in the face.
"Hey, and what do you know? You managed to hit it from all the way over there," Angel said, though his grin was cheerless, half grimace.
He glanced over at Illyria, who seemed to have control of her fight, and ran across to where Connor was apparently attempting to kill the demon he was straddling with nothing more than his fists.
As the Thmark bucked Connor off, Angel whirled and hit it in the back of the head with as much force as he could muster. It staggered forward into Spike, who had just dispatched his own enemy. Grimly, Angel grabbed onto the monster and threw it against the wall amidst a shower of bright green plastic souvenirs.
On the other side of the counter, Illyria stood up, the smear of blood on her face only adding to her haughty expression.
"Illyria, check the back room for the dagger," Angel said and turned to punch the demon Spike was now restraining for him. The bones of its face crunched under his fist and blood sprayed; some of it landed on Connor's shirt as he appeared beside Angel.
"Hey," Connor protested. "I think that was the only part of me that was still clean."
Angel didn't reply; he was too busy beating in the face of the demon until the body Spike was holding stopped struggling between them.
Letting the demon fall to the floor, Spike gave it a kick before saying, "And I thought it was just the vampires they grew big, heavy, and stupid 'round here."
Illyria appeared in the doorway with a wickedly sharp dagger in one hand and Siobhan's hair in the other, the woman struggling but silent as she tried to free herself from Illyria's grip.
"This is the weapon," Illyria said, gesturing with it. "It is the only thing in this place that wouldn't crumple in my hand."
Angel stared at it, his gaze tracing the snakes entwined around the hilt that twisted together until the shape of a serpentine head formed from their tangled tails. He took a step closer to it, reaching out... then suddenly dropped his hand and turned away.
"Connor, you take it for now; head back to the bed and breakfast. I've got... someplace I need to be."
Before any of them could react, Angel walked out the front door into the shade outside it, the pepped-up chimes of Danny Boy out of place in the otherwise quiet and disarrayed shop.
The pub that Spike entered was big enough that it wasn't too crowded and small enough that it gave an air of privacy to people sitting in the booths. It was all dark polished wood and leather and the unmistakable smell of beer. There was a small stage to one side with discreet lighting and a middle aged man at the microphone, singing a maudlin tune to the accompaniment of the band behind him.
Spike looked around and spotted Angel sitting alone in the back corner booth, surrounded by a collection of empty glasses. Having found his quarry, Spike strolled over to the bar. "Pint of ale, and put it on his tab." He jerked a thumb toward Angel.
Sipping from the glass as soon as it was handed to him, Spike ambled over and slid into the booth across from Angel. "Wondered where you'd got off to," he said casually.
"Here I am." Angel swallowed the rest of his drink and set the glass back down on the table with a click.
"So," Spike said, taking a larger pull on his ale. "You going to tell me?"
"Tell you what?" Angel asked. He stared at his empty glass.
"What my best bet is on the horsies," Spike said, rolling his eyes. "Or, alternately, whatever the hell's gone and crawled up your ass."
Angel blinked and looked down at his hands. "I need another drink."
Sliding the empty glasses to one side with a sweep of his arm, Spike shrugged. "I'd offer you mine, but..." The pause lengthened. "Nope, sorry. Got nothing. Can't really think of any circumstances where I'd give you my drink."
"I could go get another one, but that would require getting up." Angel sighed and slumped down in his seat. "You remember that time in Vienna?"
"Which one?" Spike asked.
"You know." Angel gave him a meaningful look.
"Oh," Spike said. "You mean the time we got so drunk we - "
"You don't have to say it," Angel said, clearly annoyed. "That's why I said 'you know'."
Spike rolled his eyes again and drank some more ale. "Is there a point here, or are you just using your drunken state as an excuse for this little stroll down memory lane?"
Angel shrugged. "I've just been thinking, that's all."
"Always dangerous when that happens," Spike muttered.
"Even the good memories are bad," Angel said quietly. In the background, there was some clapping as the song ended, the two vampires' eyes meeting until the sound of the applause had died down.
Spike finished his ale as if he knew he'd need it. "Yeah," he said. "I know what that's like."
"I'm just... tired," Angel said. "And I can't stop thinking about it. All the things I did. When I was first turned." He looked uneasy, unsettled.
"You're talking about the killing your whole family thing, right?" Spike asked.
"It was more like my whole village." Angel closed his eyes briefly.
"Wesley's not your family," Spike told him bluntly. "This isn't the same."
"It feels like it is," Angel said.
"Then that'd be the clue that you've slipped even further into utter mad git-ness than you've been all these years," Spike said, with a little grin to show that he wasn't being unkind. "It's different. Even you should be able to see that."
The look Angel gave him was rather bleak. "I know. It's just..." He seemed at a loss for words.
"You don't want to," Spike said.
"It's not even that," Angel said. "I mean, sure, I don't want to. But that's not the point."
Spike frowned. "Then what is?"
"Maybe..." Angel stared at his empty glass some more. "Maybe that when it comes right down to it, the difference between right and wrong isn't all that important." He offered Spike a strained smile. "Or maybe I'm just drunk."
"No 'just' about it," Spike agreed. The music in the background had changed to something even more folksy and melancholy. "It's time, Angel."
"Last call?" Angel asked, looking toward the bar.
"No," Spike said. "Time to stop moping around here like the sad sack you are and get up on your feet and be the hero. Stop the bad guy."
"He wasn't always like this," Angel said.
"Well, he is now, and it's your job to do something about it." Spike shifted in his seat and leaned forward. "We should talk about the next step. We'll need to do research, find that plain thing - "
"I know where it is," Angel said.
" - you mentioned..." Spike trailed off, looking confused. "You what?"
"I know where it is," Angel repeated. "The Plain of A Posse Ad Esse."
"You knew where he was all this time?" Spike said incredulously.
"It's a Wolfram & Hart location." Angel picked up Spike's empty glass and tipped it to his lips, then lowered it and looked into it sadly. "It's empty."
"The Plain?" Spike asked. "And please don't say the bloody thing's in Spain, or I'll have to hit you. Wait, on second thought - "
"My beer's empty."
"Oh, do us a favor. Concentrate on what's important here," Spike ordered.
"I used to be CEO, remember? As soon as I heard he was coming to Ireland, I knew there was only one place he'd go," Angel said.
"And you didn't think that was worth mentioning to the rest of us?" Spike asked. "Typical."
"I wasn't ready," Angel said.
"Ready for what? To stop wasting time?"
"I wasn't wasting it," Angel said. "I... needed it."
Spike stared at him. "You needed it," he repeated.
Angel opened his mouth, but no further explanation made its way out.
After a second, Spike nodded. "Fair enough," he said evenly.
Angel sighed and looked up at Spike. "But I'm ready now."
"Well, hallelujah to that."
"I'm glad you're here, you know," Angel told him, a bit of a slur in his voice.
Spike snorted. "Now I know you're drunk."
"It's yours," Angel said. "All of it. The hero gig, the prophecy, the reward. I signed it away."
"You what?" Spike looked even more confused than he had before. "Try speaking English."
"The Shanshu."
"That thing where you'll live until you die?" Spike asked. "Good luck with that, by the way."
"You aren't listening," Angel said, raising his voice at the same time the music ended. His words were loud in the suddenly quiet room. "It's yours."
"That easy to sign away a prophecy, is it?"
"It is when you're dealing with the Order of the Black Thorn," Angel said. He slid Spike's empty glass back across the table toward him. "It doesn't matter. I'm glad I did it; I don't want it anymore."
Spike looked at him.
"Being a hero was never about how much you could do or how far you were willing to go," Angel explained. "It's about sacrifice. Self-sacrifice. I know that, and I'm okay with it. It's time."
"And you think that means the end of the road," Spike said, a little bit flatly.
"I'm pretty sure it does," Angel said. "Don't get me wrong; it's not definite. Nothing is. But the chances are high. Really high."
"And you're okay with that?" Spike asked in disbelief.
Angel looked at him for a long, long moment before nodding. "Yeah, I am." He slid out of the booth and stood up. Spike got up, too, automatically, as if he were acting on auto-pilot. "There has to be a final battle sometime, right?" He smiled a little bit as he turned and walked away. "I'm ready."
Spike, with no words on his lips, only a stunned frown, watched Angel go.
THE END