"I just think you're trying to scare me off 'cause you're afraid of the competition. Look, Buffy, you may be hot stuff when it comes to demonology or whatever, but when it comes to dating, I'm the Slayer."
—Cordelia Chase, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season II, "Halloween"

Ned hurriedly packed his suitcase. This town was no place for a demon like him anymore, he thought. Mostly because he was about to tick off the wrong people. For all he knew, he already had. Ned had had help, of course, but he was the one who actually bought the books, and buying the Books of Ascension from an obscure Las Vegas bookseller, then smuggling them into Sunnydale under the Mayor's nose was bad enough, but re-selling them to the Slayer and her vampire-friend—Ned paused to reflect that he would never have expected to use those words together in a sentence—but letting them get hold of the books would render his life worthless: it was not a question of whether but when the Mayor would find out what he had done. He could not leave until he had unloaded the books, but he needed to be ready at a moment's notice.

Before the Mayor knew what had happened, Ned wanted to be flying over Katmandu. In an airplane, of course. Ned could not fly on his own; in fact, he had no special powers to speak of. He was much stronger than the average human, but you would not know that to look at his short, wiry physique, comical fringe of chin whiskers, and shaggy mane framing a baldpate. His only features that were truly demonic-looking were the short, blunt horns sticking out of his forehead and his pointed ears. Otherwise he could put on a big, floppy hat and be taken for a guy with a bad complexion. His skin was hideously bumpy from the viewpoint of most humans, but among his own species of demons he was actually regarded as rather handsome. He was still annoyed with the Slayer for making that crack about his complexion, but if she came through with the five grand, he thought, well, five thousand dollars buys a lot of bygones.

Ned froze in the midst of stuffing an extra pair of underwear into his already stuffed suitcase. He sensed an intruder in his run-down hotel room. He turned to see a tall, slim, brunette wearing black leather and lace, standing in front of the open door Ned knew he had locked.

"You're a vampire," said Ned.

"And you're a demon, but it doesn't mean we're not nice people."

"Funny. Earlier tonight another vampire questioned whether I'm people at all."

"That would have been Buffy, the Slayer's friend, at Mercer Cemetery, right? Also a case of the pot calling the kettle a kitchen utensil, her being a demon herself."

Ned tried to stand in front of his suitcase as if to keep the vampiress from seeing it. "How'd you know about that?" he asked.

"The same way I know you're planning to leave town," said Cordelia.

"What do you want from me?"

Cordelia closed the distance between them. "Would you believe that I've seen you around and find you irresistible?" Her eyes widened as she looked deeply into his.

"Really?" he asked.

"Can't you sense how I am drawn to your virile essence?"

"Huh?" he said.

"This isn't working on you, is it?" sighed Cordelia.

"Not a bit," he admitted. "I'd say your vampire magnetism is probably way above average, but it only works on humans."

"Oh," said Cordelia disappointedly.

"But I am enjoying the view," allowed Ned.

Cordelia looked down at her own bust, which was amply exposed dress.

"Oh!" she cried. She grabbed Ned by his collar and picked him up from the floor easily. "How's the view from up there?"

"Not so great," he gasped.

"Where are the Books of Ascension?" demanded Cordelia.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ned pleaded.

"Maybe this will refresh your memory," she said. "Full set, first editions, worn spine on volume four, slight to moderate foxing on most."

"Hey, that's from the…."

"From the invoice, yes," Cordelia said before she snarled and threw the demon onto the bed. "Turn over the books now and I might let you live."

"Why don't I believe that?" he asked.

"Why should you? I'm full of it." Cordelia smiled as she moved in. "I'll tell you what, though. You can believe that if you don't tell me, your death will be extremely slow and painful."

The demon jabbed Cordelia's chin with his left and rolled off the bed. Cordelia went after him and yanked him up, kicking and struggling.

"You have a lot of spunk," said Cordelia. "I like that." She drew Ned's body against hers and embraced him from behind. Then, placing her hands on either side of his head, she twisted it, thereby eliciting a sharp crack from his neck. The lifeless body slumped to the floor at her feet.

"Damn," said Cordelia, "I hope you have the books right here in this room or the Mayor is going to have my hiney in a soufflé." She began a methodical search of the room: under the bed, behind the curtains, even under the sink. But the most obvious hiding place proved to be the right one: in the closet.

Cordelia packed the volumes back in their shipping box and carried the awkward but, to her, nearly weightless load out of the frowsy hotel. Cordelia made herself a note never to be caught dead in this dive again: especially, of course, since dead was the only option for her anymore.

Dingoes Ate My Baby played loudly. Angel nursed a cup of coffee and looked around the Bronze expecting to see Willow because she dated Oz, but she was not in sight. Guess it's past Willow's bedtime on a school night, Angel thought with a smile.

When the band took a break, Oz went to get a coffee and chatted with his band mates. Angel was vaguely aware of some strain on Oz and Willow's relationship, but he didn't know what to make of it; everyone had been under a strain lately.

Angel had hoped that the loud music would prevent anyone from speaking to him, but during the break a man took the stool next to him. The man was average in height, rather thin and young. His hair was a light brown, his face was, in fact, a frank and open face; he was, however, the oldest-looking young man that Angel had ever seen. He was dressed rather formally for the venue, albeit in a drab and even threadbare suit, although his tie was missing. He was a bit drunk, as well.

"Howard Quillish," he said, offering his hand.

Angel delayed but finally shook it. "Angel," he said.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Angel. I'm a teacher at Sunnydale High. What's your line?"

"Oh yeah?" said Angel with mild curiosity. "Was Buffy Summers in one of your classes?"

"Well, first of all," said Quillish, leaning in a little too close, "are you referring to one of the girls who disappeared after the massacre in the gym?"

"Yeah," said Angel, wishing he had not brought up the subject. He stopped pretending to breathe so that he wouldn't have to smell the alcohol on Quillish's breath.

"Terrible tragedy," said Quillish, staring at his beer. He paused, "But I did have her in a class once. She was one of the nicer kids, actually. I should say, though, I'm not a regular teacher; I'm a substitute."

"Substitute," said Angel. "I'm aware of that strange American custom."

"Strange American…. Are you foreign? You don't sound it."

"I've lived in this country a long time."

"Really? Where'd you grow up?"

"Ireland."

"They don't have substitute teachers in Ireland?"

"Not when I was a lad; if the teacher didn't show up, they just cancelled class."

"Bet you liked that."

"What's not to like?"

"You're right," said Quillish ruefully. "I'd probably like it better that way, too, even if it put me out a job. There are other jobs in the world."

"If you don't mind my asking," said Angel, "why do you substitute teach if you don't like it?"

"Too scared to find my true calling," he said.

"Teaching isn't your true calling?"

"Well, I thought it might be, but it's really hard to get a permanent position, and maintaining any kind of discipline as a substitute is—to say the least—daunting. I don't mind telling you, I dread answering the phone when it rings tomorrow at six a.m. Even more, I dread walking into the classroom they'll assign me to."

Well, just remember," said Angel. "You're in charge."

"Yeah?" said Quillish, eagerly welcoming whatever encouragement might come his way.

"If they act out, call them to the front of the class and give 'em a swat across the keister with a stout switch."

Quillish's eyes widened. "Man, what century did you go to school?"

Mercifully, the band came off of its break and resumed playing loudly; it was impossible for the two men to continue their conversation. At least it was impossible for Quillish, who did not possess the ability of a vampire to hear above the din of a nightclub.

"Listen," said Angel, "I hate to ask you to shove off, but I'm expecting someone."

"Oh, sure. How rude of me to barge in on you."

"Not at all, and I wish you well in your search for your calling."

"Uh, thanks," said Quillish as he slid off of the stool and moved away.

"This seat taken, Mister?" asked a familiar voice.

Without having to look, Angel said, "It is now, Buffy."

"I'll take that as an invitation," she said, sliding onto the stool next to Angel.

"Been out patrolling with Faith again?" Angel asked.

"Yeah."

"How's that going?"

"Surprisingly, OK," said Buffy. "You know, the whole vampire-cooperating-with-Slayer thing takes a little getting used to."

"Yeah, tell me about it," said Angel.

"Who was that guy you were talking with?"

"Said he's a substitute teacher at Sunnydale High. Look familiar?"

"Yeah. Kinda," was all that Buffy could say about the man who was, at that moment walking unsteadily out of the club.

"Mr. Quillish is a real sad sack," Angel told Buffy.

"Yeah," said Buffy, "I kinda recall."

"He's terrified of students because they never obey him."

Buffy just nodded, so Angel changed the subject. "So, where are you staying?" he asked.

"You're probably going to laugh, but remember how you joked that Mom could put a coffin in the basement for me? Well, she actually did put me in the basement, though not in a coffin, just a cot," Buffy giggled. "Don't need a coffin," she continued, "since the whole basement is my coffin. We blocked up the windows. It's kinda cozy. Going a little stir crazy down there, though. You oughta come…." She stopped and left her sentence hanging. "I guess you're not finding this as funny as I thought you would."

"There's nothing funny to me about your unhappiness," said Angel setting down his coffee and looking at her.

"I didn't actually say I'm unhappy, although I can't say I'm euphoric, either. Did I tell you Faith helped me move most of my stuff into the basement?"

"You're really giving up your old room?" asked Angel as it suddenly sank in.

"I can't be in there in the morning light," said Buffy. "So Faith's taken my old room."

There was another long pause. Angel brooded. He remembered the first time he was ever in her room; he recalled the last time, too, and the many in between. Not always good times.

They sat through a long, awkward silence.

"Have you ever heard of something called the Books of Ascension?" Buffy finally asked.

"Can't say I have," replied Angel.

"Well someone offered to sell them to us tonight. I mean, a demon came right up to a Slayer and offered to let us have them for five thousand dollars."

Angel whistled. "Lotta money."

"What's strange is, he told us the Mayor is interested in them."

"I see," said Angel. "If the Mayor is interested, we should be, too."

Mayor Richard Wilkins III looked up from his desk as Cordelia entered his office. He smiled as he looked at his desk clock: the time was exactly 8 p.m.

"Cordelia, if there is one quality I admire above almost any other, it's punctuality, and you are right on time," he said. Cordelia hardly acknowledged his greeting; indeed, she was frowning. "On the other hand, if there is something I dislike above all else, it's a frown," he added. "I want you to tell me right this minute what I can do to turn that frown upside down."

"Did you know that I ate my parents before I came to work for you?" asked Cordelia glumly.

"I'm aware of that," said Wilkins, "but I had no idea you were still moping about it. You know, you and I have both given up our souls. Technically, of course, I still have mine, but I no longer own it. Makes it feel rather lightly tethered to this mortal coil. Anyway, my point is that a soul can be—what's the term you young people use nowadays?—a real drag.

"I've seen a lot of people die—including people whose deaths I've caused, directly or indirectly—but they don't bother me: least of all the loved ones I've laid to rest. Now, I'm as big a supporter of family values as the next fellow, but I don't see why someone without a soul wouldn't just be singing 'Zippity-Doo-Dah' right about now, even if she had eaten her parents. You've got to buck up, stick out your chest and put the twinkle back in those gorgeous peepers of yours." Mayor Wilkins chuckled gleefully.

Cordelia waved her hands frantically in front of her. "No, no, no," she said. "I'm not upset because I ate them. But, afterwards, I started thinking about all the money Daddy had and whether I was going to get any of it, you know, since I'm an orphan? Then it turns out the IRS had been breathing down Daddy's neck for a while just because he kept forgetting to do his income taxes for the last twelve years. You could say I got to his neck before they did, but the government has accelerated the whole investigation, now, and they've attached everything he owned. I'm not only an orphan; I'm a poor one. Do you know anybody who can do something about estate taxes?"

"Now, now," chided the Mayor. "We all have to pay our taxes to support each and every level of government; I happen to believe in civic duty, but don't you worry about your inheritance; I'm offering you a place at my right hand on the day of the Ascension, and on that day, you will be able to have anything in the world your heart desires."

"Can I have things that are really expensive?" asked Cordelia dreamily.

"Can you? You bet," the Mayor chuckled. "Right now, though, I have an errand for you to do. You might call it a challenge."

"I'm intrigued already."

The Mayor chuckled freely. "That's the spunky Cordelia I've come to cherish." He paused and became serious. "I want you to seduce Angel; see if you can bring him over to our side."

"Hmm, that is a challenge. I've tried before, when I was human—and I got pretty far—but he really likes Buffy. Doesn't think about much else."

Well, something tells me he isn't so happy with her being a vampire."

"Really? How do you know?"

"Like I said: something told me. Can't say what it was; if everyone knew my sources, then I'd have to get new ones."

Cordelia idly swatted at a fly.

"Don't!" the mayor cried, reaching out to stay her hand. "One of my informants," he admitted.

"Talk about a fly on the wall!" Cordelia exclaimed.