Chapter 2: The Suspect

California, Burbank, Buy More, March 18th, 2008

"Hi, Casey!" Hernàndez beamed at him. "Morgan told me that you were the expert for everything in the camping and home-improvement sections."

John made a note to have a talk about this with Grimes. "I've spent a lot of time using tools and camping," he said.

"Oh? You like the outdoors?"

"I was in the Corps. The Marine Corps," he added.

"Oh." She was good - she had reacted as if she hadn't known what he meant until he had explained. She even licked her lips as if she were nervous, but wanted to ask a question.

"I left the service before we invaded Afghanistan," he told her. He knew what civilians usually asked when they heard one had been a soldier.

"Ah." The woman nodded. "So you haven't, ah..."

"No," he lied. He had been in several wars, and he had killed a lot of people.

"Ah." Her smile grew more confident. Definitely acting talent, there. "So… what do I need to know about all this?" She made a vague gesture towards the entire camping section.

"Everything," he told her with a grim smile.

She nodded eagerly in return. Typical.

"...and these are the tents. All but this model are overpriced crap." He tapped the military surplus tent in the back of the display.

"Oh. Is that a tent you used in the Military?"

"No. The Corps had a different model when I was serving." An older one, not quite as good. But as a Marine, you were used to having to make do with obsolete material while the army got all the new toys. And the Air Force… He stopped before he started to growl.

"Ah." She scrunched her nose and looked pensive.

She was probably trying to calculate his time in the Corps based on this information - although both Fulcrum and the CIA should have that basic information already even if they didn't have his original identity. Hell, they could have his old identity, too - Alex Coburn had been dead for over twenty-five years and left no family. Just a fiancée who had moved on.

"So… and we're supposed to sell the good tents or the expensive tents?"

"The expensive ones," he told her, baring his teeth. "If they don't know a good from a bad tent, they don't know how to pitch up the good tent, either."

She looked confused for a moment. "But… if a tent is too complicated for a customer, it's not a good tent for them, is it?"

She sounded like the nerd trying to argue. He let some of his anger seep into his tone. "Anyone could learn to pitch it up, but most are too lazy." Spoiled. Like the Chair Force. Hm. That was a thought - if they could get some of those tents as surplus, they could sell them at a premium… He blinked. Hell, he had been in Burbank for too long - he was starting to think like an actual clerk! Not even Afghanistan had been that bad.

"Right! Sorry for asking."

She wasn't sorry, she just acted as if she were. He grunted anyway. "Camping supplies."

"Right!" She smiled again. "As before, the good supplies are the military surplus, and the others are overpriced?"

"No," he snapped. "Not when it comes to cooking."

"Oh."

He was lecturing her about the differences between good canned foods and bad ones when he spotted a suspicious man approaching the tools and weapons section. Middle-aged, ragged appearance - he looked like a hobo who hadn't forgotten how to keep reasonably clean. And he was eyeing the axes. "Wait here," John spat and started towards the 'customer'.

"What? Where are you going? Wait!"

He took a deep breath. She was like the nerd - he didn't listen either when he was told to wait in the car. "Wait here. Potential trouble."

"Trouble?" She gasped.

But he was already moving towards the hobo, who had taken an axe up. "Can I help you, Mister?" John asked - loudly - from a few yards away.

The man gasped, then turned towards John. His eyes were wide and looked wild.

John narrowed his own eyes. "That's a good axe. A little expensive."

The man gasped again, then whirled and tried to run.

John hated it when they tried to run. A glance told him that the hobo was running towards the main entrance. John cut him off with a sprint through the home-improvement section. The idiot was looking over his shoulder and didn't notice him until John tackled him to the ground.

Or tried to - the guy didn't go down even though John had hit him perfectly.

Instead, he lashed out, and John was sent flying.

The hobo hadn't much leverage, which was the reason John ended up thrown away, instead of having his chest caved in, and a pyramid of cereal boxes broke his fall, but he still felt his ribs bruise as he rolled over the floor. This was a demon! Or a cyborg!

He rolled over his shoulder, crushing a few more boxes, and rose in a crouch. He started to draw his pistol from the holster in the small of his back, then glanced at the broom display and reconsidered. Bullets wouldn't do much to a demon, and the hobo was running towards the exit again.

He grabbed a broom handle from the special offer bin and ran after the enemy. The hobo was almost at the exit - too far away for an interception. John clenched his teeth and threw the stick.

It hit the hobo in the legs, tripping him in front of the exit, and the demon or cyborg went down with a growl. The stolen axe slid over the floor, out of reach, as John rushed in.

But the hobo jumped up as if he were a martial artist - no, it wasn't graceful enough; just powerful, but slightly jerky - and screamed. Then he charged John. Despite the man's gangly gait, John barely managed to evade the attack in time - he felt the man's haymaker displace the air above his head as John ducked and rolled to the side.

The hobo turned around himself as he stumbled, overextended, and almost crashed into a bunch of morons who hadn't fled yet. John used the opportunity and picked up the broom handle with another combat roll.

He came up in a quarterstaff stance, and his opponent obliged him by once again charging straight at him. Having anticipated it, John slid to the side and struck out with a quick combo, smashing his improvised staff into the man's knee, then hit him in the back of his head as the man passed him.

Another sweep tripped the hobo again, and John followed up by burying one end of the staff in the man's gut, sending him sprawling on the ground. He finished with a strike to the temple that broke the handle.

And the man wasn't finished. Growling, he stood again, shaking his head like an animal, then pounced - too fast to dodge, John realised too late. He started to raise the broken remains of the staff in a one-handed escrima block but knew he would be too late - and too weak to stop the monster.

And then the hobo vanished - smashed to the side, into the peanut butter display, by a blur. By a Slayer.

Caridad had tackled the guy, and was pummeling him with a barrage of punches almost too fast to observe. And her strikes, unlike John's before, were effective - the man flailed around a few times, landing a glancing blow on her shoulder before he stopped moving.

She stared at him for a moment, then turned her head towards John. He felt a shiver run down his spine - for an instant, she looked like a predator. Like that jaguar that John had once encountered in the jungle.

She changed in the blink of an eye, turning into a normal-looking woman. "Are you alright?"

He nodded. "He never got his hands on me." A little pain was nothing.

She narrowed her eyes but nodded, not challenging his claim.

He looked around - most of the customers had fled, but a few were watching, and what passed for security guards were moving towards them. "What is he? Demon?" he whispered.

"Possessed I think - he smet a little demony, but only when I was in his face - I would have smelt a real demon from further away," she replied.

That explained it - John had been wondering how a demon or cyborg had managed to get past the scanners and her nose.

"We can't leave him to the cops, though - he can easily kill them," she went on. "Grab him and put him in the Castle's cells! I'll tell them you're taking him to a doctor!"

He glanced at the approaching guards, clenched his teeth, and grabbed the possessed guy. He ignored the calls from the guards and rushed out of the store - he needed to get the hobo locked up before the bastard woke up.

As much as he loathed admitting it, John wouldn't be able to stop the man. Not by himself. He might manage to kill the man - but even that was not certain.

He was still gritting his teeth in frustration when he put cuffs on the man before locking the cell door.

He hated magic. It was just unfair.

As soon as he returned to the store - after Bane and Grimes had taken over watching the prisoner - he found Hernàndez waiting for him. "Casey! Did you get the man to the hospital?"

"I handed him over to a pair of paramedics," John lied. Although both Bane and Grimes had some training in first aid. Or, in Grimes's case, at least some experience.

She seemed relieved to hear that. "Was he on drugs? I thought my heart stopped when he screamed with the axe. And then you tackled him!"

She was good - appealing to his vanity, but in a subtle way. He shrugged. "I think he was on drugs - he didn't seem to feel pain."

She nodded. "I saw you hit him with the broom - he didn't react at all."

A normal man would have gone down, he knew. But magic didn't play by the rules. "It was a light broom," he said, nodding, "not a real weapon."

"Ah. But then, the waitress tackled him, and he collapsed."

"Caridad," he replied. "She's a martial artist."

"Oh. You know her?"

"Yes."

She looked like she wanted to ask another question but then nodded again. "That was impressive anyway. Both you and her. Like in a movie."

He grunted at that. In a movie, it was the sidekick who got saved by the hero. And he wasn't a sidekick. He was a veteran. An agent. A spy. And he should be able to deal with a single hobo. If not for magic…

"Do you think anyone can learn to fight like her?" Hernàndez asked with a hopeful smile. "You've learned how to fight in the army, right?"

He pressed his lips together for a moment. "The Marine Corps," he corrected her. The bulk of his skills had come later, but he started in the Corps. "Anyone can learn martial arts, but it takes a lot of talent and dedication to become a Master." And all the dedication and talent was useless when fighting demons if you didn't have magic.

"Oh." She looked around. "I was hoping to learn. I would feel a little safer with some of the customers here."

"And the staff," John added. Now it became clearer - she wanted to use this as an excuse to get closer to Caridad, to spy on her. As expected. Before he could tell her that that was up to Caridad, he spotted a man walking towards them. He wore plain clothes, but even without the badge dangling on his belt, John would have known he was a cop - he man had the typical attitude. In spades.

"Mr Casey," he said with a nod. "Detective Thomson, LAPD." He nodded at Hernàndez. "Miss...?"

"Uh, Hernàndez. Federica Hernàndez," she replied.

The man had known his name, John noted. And he'd bet that Thompson had known him before he had heard of the incident. John nodded back and waited.

"I've got a few questions for you. About the altercation in which you were involved." Thompson made a point of looking around.

Some of the store staff - the usual suspects - were busy arguing about who should fix all the wrecked displays and aisles. They probably would be half-way done if they had just started working.

"Oh, Casey was great! He stopped the crazed man with the axe!" Hernàndez blurted out.

Thompson's lips twisted into a cynical smile. "So I've heard."

John narrowed his eyes. As he had thought, Thompson was here for him. The LAPD wouldn't send a detective for a shoplifter, axe or no axe, unless there were serious injuries. Damn. They would have to have the CIA cover for them again, John realised. Make it appear as if there had been fake paramedics who took the man off him - make the LAPD back off again. The general wouldn't be pleased. "I just noticed a suspicious man, probably a hobo, eyeing the camping tools," he told the cop. "I went over to let him know I was watching, and he tried to run. I tackled him before he could flee, and we had a brief fight. Caridad, a waitress from a local food stand, helped."

Thompson frowned - did he know the Slayer? The Council had some arrangement with the local cops, John knew, but he wasn't aware of the details. "I see." The cop shook his head. "You lead an exciting life, Mr Casey."

Hernàndez made a good show of looking confused and curious at the same time.

"Not as exciting as it was in the Corps," John replied. He hoped that the cop wouldn't take him in. Explaining his pistol would ruin his cover. "Just a shoplifter on drugs. Or so I think - he acted pretty crazy." John shrugged to play down the whole thing.

Thompson wasn't buying it, John could tell even though the man slowly nodded. "Where did you take the man?

"There was an ambulance outside," John told him. "Someone had already called them, and they took him. I think he had an overdose or something - he was unconscious."

"Did they say which hospital they were taking the man to?"

John shook his head. "No, and I didnt ask. What for?" He shrugged again.

Thompson frowned some more, then nodded curtly. "Thank you. I'll contact you if I have more questions."

Which he would have, once they found out that the hobo had never reached any hospital in Los Angeles. They would have to get the Agency on that as soon as possible. And lie about this being a possible Fulcrum attack.

Damn.

California, Burbank, The Castle, March 18th, 2008

"A possible Fulcrum attack?"

The general looked doubtful. John would have felt the same in her place, of course. "We're investigating."

"And you want the Agency to lean on the LAPD to drop the case."

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded.

"I couldn't help noticing that your report is quite rudimentary." She narrowed her eyes at him, and her lips formed a thin line as she frowned.

"The details are classified, ma'am."

"And yet you assume it was an attack by Fulcrum?" Now her eyebrows rose.

"It cannot be ruled out." Although if Fulcrum was starting to use possessed people, then they would have to call the Council. Hell, John wished this was just Fulcrum testing combat drugs on hobos.

She scoffed but, as he had expected, nodded. "We'll talk to the LAPD. But do try to avoid catching such attention in the future."

"Yes, ma'am." Not that that would be possible, with Fulcrum knowing about them. And the general was aware of that, of course.

"Dismissed, agents, Mr Bartowski."

As the screen faded to black, Bartowski spoke up: "She didn't ask after the prisoner."

Moron. "She knows we won't tell her, so she didn't ask."

"Oh. Something like 'never give an order you know won't be obeyed'?"

"A little," Bane replied before John could. "Or she simply doesn't like to get her face rubbed in the fact that we're privy to things she doesn't have the clearance to know."

"Ah." Bartowski nodded and scratched his leg again, smiling like an idiot. "I missed this!"

"Scratching your leg?" John asked with a sneer.

"Yes! Do you know how frustrating it is if you can't scratch an itch?"

John just stared at him until the moron realised what he had just said and blushed.

"Uh… I mean the actual scratching, not, you know…"

"We know, Chuck," Walker said, patting his shoulder with a smile.

John could only hope that she wasn't coddling the moron when it came to rehab - the man would need some serious training to get his leg back into usable shape after wearing a cast for a few weeks.

He stood and walked towards the interrogation room. Time to check what the Watchers had found out.

Incoherent screaming greeted him as soon as he opened the door - the hobo was howling and bucking, held in the grips of Caridad and Vi while Grimes and Brown-Smythe were placing some bowls around them. "Are you planning to exorcise him?"

"Oh, no," Grimes replied. "Not yet. This is just another detection spell."

"The exact nature of what kind of demon is possessing this poor man has remained vexingly obscure so far," Brown-Smythe added.

John grunted in acknowledgement. So, they hadn't found out anything yet. He was about to leave the room again - he didn't need to see the spell in action - but Bartowski, Bane and Walker had followed him.

"Uh… that looks painful," Bartowski commented, pointing at the hobo.

"I doubt that he's feeling pain," Caridad replied. "And it's better than knocking him out."

"Or having him wreck his wrists trying to break out of handcuffs," Vi added.

John ground his teeth. He couldn't have known that the possessed man would do that. Or that he could do that - those had been special restraints.

The two Watchers finished their preparations, and Brown-Smythe started a quick chant while burning some incense. Or something. It looked more like some New Age crap to John. Until there was a softly glowing light spreading over the hobo's body.

John crossed his arms to hide the shiver than ran down his spine as the man's thrashing and yelling intensified. "Should have gagged him at least."

"In some cases, a possessed person's words will give hints about the demon behind it," Grimes said. "Like the demon language they use."

So, speaking in tongues was an actual thing. John should have expected that. "And did it work?"

"Uh, no… he just kept screaming and howling." Grimes grimaced as John scoffed.

After another minute of listening to increasingly hoarse screaming, Brown-Smythe took a deep breath and rose from where he had been sitting. "Another inconclusive result. I fear we have but one promising avenue left to take."

"And that would be?" Bartowski asked.

"Exorcising the demon in the hope that its victim can give us more information," the old man replied. "I would have preferred to have more information before attempting this, but that's the hand we've been dealt."

"We tried all we could," Grimes said. "Time to banish a demon."

He didn't sound very eager, which didn't fill John with confidence, either.

He didn't have to stay, of course. He could go out to check on Hernàndez or something. But as much as he loathed magic, he wasn't about to tuck his tail between his legs and flee his own base. If Bartowski could attend this, then John could do so as well. And first-hand knowledge was always better than being told about something.

So he leaned against the wall, crossed his arms and scowled as the two Watchers started to prepare the exorcism - which looked like yet another spell or ritual to John.

And the possessed hobo kept snarling at them and trying to break the Slayers' grips. Without any chance of success, of course - John could tell that the man didn't have the training to break free, even if he would have had the strength. Although Vi looked concerned…

"Hurry up, I almost broke a nail!"

John closed his eyes. They had no sense of priorities.

But, after about ten minutes filled with snarling and whining, the Watchers were finally ready for the exorcism. Which, John quickly found out, didn't involve a bible, just some new age-looking crystals to 'symbolise purity' or whatever Grimes babbled as the tied up the hobo to a chair which they placed in the middle of the circle.

"Can you gag him now?" John asked.

"That would be inadvisable," Brown-Smythe replied. "It is often said that a possessing demon is forced out through the victim's mouth. Gagging the man will make it harder for the ritual to succeed."

So John would have to listen to more incoherent screaming. He pulled out his set of earplugs. What worked for the range would work for demons.

It helped, even if it was only a little. Something about the screaming seemed to bypass the plugs. The same seemed to be the case for the Latin chanting that Brown-Smythe and Grimes had started. Well, the two Watchers might qualify as an old and a young priest - if you squinted and were drunk. Feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up and a chill running down his spine, John wished he'd have a drink or two.

But whatever they were doing, it was working - the shrieks of the hobo grew even louder until his voice started to fail. And there was foam on his lips now. He looked like a rabid animal. A cornered rabid animal. Damn - was there a thing like magical rabies? None of the others seemed to be concerned about it, though.

The chanting of the two Watchers grew louder as well. John wished he had taken ear protectors with him. How could the Slayers stand this? The two women were staring at the bound hobo, ready to pounce, without the slightest sign of discomfort.

Unlike Bartowski, who was flinching and would have probably fled already if he didn't have to look tough in front of his girlfriend. At least Bane and Walker showed more self-control.

After a few more minutes, the hobo suddenly stopped thrashing around and trying to break the solid metal chair. John held his breath against his will as the man's head slowly rose, and he glared at them - at John - with glowing eyes. The hobo had stopped screaming, too, and there was smoke pouring out his mouth when he opened it.

"Coyolxauhqui will devour you all! Her glory will be restored!"

The smoke pouring out of the hobo's mouth grew thicker - and glowed as well - for a few more seconds, rising as it faded. A moment later, the man slumped over, and Caridad was there.

"Still alive," she declared, grabbing the man's throat. "And he doesn't feel demony any more."

"He shouldn't, but thank you for confirming, my dear," Brown-Smythe told her as he slowly got up. The Watcher groaned. "That took a little longer than I expected."

"You need to do more yoga," Caridad told him. "Keeps you flexible."

John snorted, but the older man turned to look at him. "Yoga, although it is not often acknowledged as such, is actually a quite traditional form of exercise in Britain."

John frowned - it was hard to tell with limeys when they were trying to fool you, but the Watcher sounded serious. But then, he had just completed an exorcism. "What was that name he mentioned?" he asked.

"Coyolxauhqui is the name of an Aztec deity," Brown-Smythe replied.

"What? Are we going to fight a hell-god? Like Glory?" Vi exclaimed. "I thought it was just the usual bragging!"

"I don't think we're facing a hell-god - or goddess, in this case," the Watcher said. "But it would behove us to be careful since I could be mistaken. More research is needed. If it is a threat like Glory, we will certainly have to call London for help."

"Great," Caridad muttered. "More poachers."

John didn't know who Glory was or had been, but once again, he was reminded that the Slayer needed a better sense of priorities.

"And what do we do with the guy here?" Bartowski asked. "He's been possessed and he's now wanted by the LAPD for assault, attempted robbery and drug abuse."

"We'll interrogate him as soon as he wakes up," John replied. He would likely have information about how he got possessed.

Bartowski blinked. "Uh… I meant, what do we do to help him?"

John rolled his eyes at the bleeding heart sentiment - they were talking about a hobo; he had no doubt that the man had been a drug user before the possession - but refrained from voicing that. Everyone else seemed to be agreeing with the moron - or doing a convincing job of faking it, in Bane and Walker's cases.

"The LAPD doesn't know his ID. He should be fine with a haircut and new clothes - both of which he needs, anyway," Bane pointed out.

"Uh… he probably needs more help than that," Bartowski said. "Being possessed must have been traumatic. And most homeless people have psychological issues to begin with."

Which would make his intel less reliable. And their mission to stop this demon from possessing more people harder. But the moron didn't care about that.

"Arranging for therapy shouldn't be too challenging," Brown-Smythe said. "Although any recollection of being possessed will be seen as a delusion to be treated. Although we should wait until he can answer questions, since knowing his name would greatly facilitate matters."

The Watcher didn't say that being sent into the loony bin would also mean the man would eventually think his talk about demons had been a delusion. Brown-Smythe was quite practical, after all. "Put him on a cot in the infirmary, but don't let him see the rest of the base," John cut in. Even with the base known to Fulcrum, they couldn't neglect security.

"To the medbay!" Grimes piped up. Moron.

John shook his head, then addressed Brown-Smythe: "So, what do you know about this 'Glory' you mentioned?"

Fifteen minutes later, John had been filled in. He almost wished he hadn't, but intelligence such as this was vital. "A Hellgod. Or goddess."

"Bimbo," Caridad cut in. "She was always dressing cheaply and obsessed with shoes."

"Don't let Buffy hear that!" Vi said.

"She told me that," Caridad retorted.

John tried to tune them out. "I would have expected such a thing to have been mentioned before."

"It was dealt with," Brown-Smythe said. "Our records go past thousands of years - we don't tend to make every recruit read them."

"Well, I had to…" Grimes complained.

"You plan to become a full-fledged Watcher, which requires in-depth knowledge of our history," the older man retorted. "In any case, Glorificius was a dire threat, but there have been worse."

"Like the First Evil," Grimes said, probably trying to show off what he had learned. "But the Scoobies dealt with both."

"We wouldn't be here should they have failed in their task."

The entire world had almost been destroyed several times in the last decade. That wasn't a comforting thought. On the other hand, it meant that even working for the Council, John would be protecting his country. "So, do you think this Aztec demon is another Glory? And the hobo a cultist?"

"He's not homeless," Bartowski interrupted them.

"What?" John narrowed his eyes at the moron, but Bartowski stood his ground.

"I said our guest isn't homeless." Bartowski tapped a few keys, and the man's face appeared on the big screen. "I ran a search for missing persons and got a hit. Robert Black. He went missing A week ago. He is a broker. Or was - they might've fired him by now. But he owns a villa in Hollywood, so he's not homeless. Technically."

"He certainly smells like a hobo," Caridad replied.

"You could bathe him," Vi suggested.

"Ew, no! You bathe him!"

"Please." At Brown-Smythe's remark, both Slayers fell silent. "So, the victim was a man of means. That means it is unlikely that he was kidnapped to serve as a vessel because another homeless person wouldn't be missed."

"I bet he bought some cursed antique!" Caridad said. "It's always some cursed item with the rich."

"Not always. Sometimes, they are cultists - and sometimes, they are only rich because of the young women they sacrifice to a demon," Vi retorted.

That sounded oddly specific, in John's opinion. But they had to focus on the problem at hand. "We can interrogate Black as soon as he wakes up. What about this Aztec Demon?"

"Coyolxauhqui," Brown-Smythe replied. "In the Aztec myths, she found out that her mother Cōātlīcue had gotten pregnant again. Thinking that Cōātlīcue had dishonoured her family, Coyolxauhqui tried to kill her with her brothers, but her mother managed to give birth to their youngest sibling, Huitzilopochtli, who was born with weapons in hand and slew them all. Coyolxauhqui was dismembered, and her body parts scattered to the wind - in some myths, her head became the moon."

"Ew." Caridad grimaced.

"Well, that certainly is a myth," Brown-Smythe said. "But a demon being dismembered and its parts scattered so they cannot revive happened before."

"The Judge," Grimes said. "Did you read anything about being impervious to weapons?"

"Our information about Coyolxauhqui is rather scarce - the Conquistadores were quite thorough when they exterminated the Aztec priests and razed their temples. With good reason, mind you - they were practising human sacrifice on a scale unheard of, and were preparing an apocalypse, according to our records. Still, it means finding out more about this threat will be a little difficult."

"Great. More sifting through books?" Caridad said.

"We need to acquire the books first, dear."

"Even worse. More mouldy bookshops to…" Caridad trailed off and cocked her head to the side. "The guy just woke up."

Black was indeed awake, John saw as they entered the infirmary - he was sobbing, his face covered by both hands, and mumbling: "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God."

"Uh… hello, Mr Black," Bartowski said with a rather forced smile.

If they were in combat, John would slap the man, but they weren't under that kind of pressure.

"Mr Black? Uh, you're safe. The demon's gone and won't be back. Probably." Bartowski went on when the man didn't react.

"Well, he obviously remembers being possessed," Caridad pointed out.

She was correct, John realised - this would be a worthwhile interrogation.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. What have I done?"

"Mr Black? Please calm down. You're safe."

"Perhaps give him a sedative?" Bane suggested.

"No! No drugs!" the man suddenly screamed. "No drugs!" He looked at them with wide-open eyes and panted.

Bartowski held up his hands and took a step back. "No drugs, got it! No problem, really! I don't like drugs either."

Walker tried to get to the man now. "Mr Black, you were possessed. We know that. We freed you. You're safe now. But we need to know what happened. Can you tell us?"

Black must have a thing for blondes since he noticeably calmed down in Walkers presence and slowly nodded. "I… I couldn't do anything. I was doing things, but I didn't want to - but I couldn't stop. Oh my God, the blood…"

Ah. Bartowski winced, as did Grimes, but the others simply nodded. John had expected something like that - the guy had tried to steal an axe, after all.

"It wasn't you, Mr Black. It was a demon," Walker went on.

"It was like a dream… a nightmare. I didn't want… didn't want… I killed him. Oh God, I killed him!" The man sobbed and covered his face again.

Apparently, Black didn't like blondes enough to get over his trauma long enough to give them the intel they needed. Pity.

A few minutes later, Black was in a state to answer questions again. At least he had stopped sobbing.

"What's the last thing you remember that you did because you wanted it?" Bartowski asked.

"I was at Bill's party. Bill van Vleck. He had just closed a deal with a client - managing their portfolio.- and we were celebrating in his apartment. There were those girls…" The man smiled for the first time.

John rolled his eyes. Of course.

"Girls?" Bartowski asked.

"Call girls," Black explained. "Bill hadn't spared any expense."

"Oh." The moron was blushing, or so it seemed.

Walker gave him a look as well before she turned back to address Black. "So, what happened? When did you lose control of your body?"

"I don't remember exactly… we drank a lot. Bill's got an excellent wine cellar." Black chuckled, though it sounded more like a sob. "We drank a lot, and… there was something. In his bedroom. Something… I don't remember. I don't remember."

"What do you remember next?" Walker asked.

"I was on the street. The next day, I think. I wanted to go home, but I wouldn't - I went… walking."

"Walking?" Caridad asked.

"Walking around. I didn't even take my car - I just wandered. For days. Ate what I found on the street. Even though I had money!"

"That might indicate that the possessing demon wasn't familiar with human society and couldn't access its host's memories," Brown-Smythe commented.

"It spoke to us in English, though," Grimes pointed out.

"It might have been adjusting to its host," the old man replied. "Over time, it might have completely assimilated or absorbed its host. He did enter the store to get an axe, after all."

"A few more days and the demon might have been able to impersonate Black," Grimes said. "Or… when did you kill someone?"

"Last night. A hobo. We were sleeping in the same alley, and… I waited until he was asleep, then killed him. Bashed his head in with a rock. There was so much blood. Then I… I cut his heart out. With a pocket knife!"

John leaned forward. "You didn't have blood on your hands or clothes."

"I… I… I licked it off. Oh my God!" The man suddenly bet over and vomited all over the sheets. Then the screaming started again.

"I've sedated him," Bane said five minutes later, back in the main room. "He should be out for a few hours." She shook her head. "I don't think we'll get any more intel out of him."

"He's too traumatised to think clearly," Bartowski said.

"I guess he could stomach murder and mutilation, but not cannibalism," John commented. Bartowski grimaced, he noted - and Walker, predictably, glared at him.

"I think the murder was a sacrifice, one that strengthened the demon's hold over the host," Brown-Smythe said. "Although it's concerning that we weren't aware of a murder in which someone's heart was cut out."

"They might not have found the body," Grimes said. "We didn't ask what he did with it."

"That is possible and would fit the theory that the demon gained better access and, therefore, understanding, to the host's memories after the sacrifice. Enough to hide the body and seek out better tools." The Watcher shook his head. "We stopped him just in time to prevent a series of murders, I believe. The question is: was he the only one possessed?"

"He doesn't remember how he got possessed," Bartowski said, frowning. "If it happened at this party, there could be others affected."

"They would have gone missing as well," Walker pointed out, "and two or more brokers going missing after the same party? That would have made the news."

Probably. But this was L.A. - it might have been business as usual.

"But if it happened at this party," Bartowski spoke up again, "what are the odds that the host was already, uh, another kind of host?"

Damn.

"Pretty high, I'd say," Grimes said.

"We'll have to investigate this Bill van Vleck," Brown-Smythe said. "Although we'll need to be careful not to get possessed ourselves."

Great. John nodded, trying not to show his thoughts. Being possessed… turned into a hobo, then a serial killer, trying to bring back some Aztec demon… He'd rather die than suffer that.