"The sisterhood of the Veii consists of nine priestesses, women of monumental power and skill. Their devotion to good is legendary." Wesley paused to glance out of the convertible's side window, seeing the bustling sidewalks sun-drenched by the fading, afternoon sun. "Their places of power are usually well guarded," he added, as an afterthought, "having a distinct liking for their privacy."
"Not a problem."
Wesley sighed at the driver's careless belligerence. "Don't underestimate these people, Angel," he warned, grimly. "For thousands of years, they've been accumulating some of the most powerful demons that walk this Earth in their quest for order. It's not just humans that you will be faced with."
"Is that what they'll do to Connor, Wesley? Enslave him to their cause?"
"I believe so."
"Then whatever gets in my way…is gonna die."
Though Angel kept his gaze fixed upon the road, the tinted glass of the windshield protecting him from the sun's deadly rays, Wesley could see how his fingers had tightened convulsively on the steering wheel, turning ever paler with the strain. It was a telling sign that Angel was taking Connor's abduction to heart, to matter what the boy had done to his father in his grief over Holtz's death.
Feeling he should say something more, Wesley continued, "We'll find him, Angel. We'll get him back."
"That's funny, because four months ago, that's exactly what I was spinning round in circles trying to do."
The silence that followed was sharp and brittle, full of old pain, the wounds caused by both men's betrayal still raw. Wesley ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, feeling weary beyond belief, yet fighting for something to say, anything to break the awkward moment. He never had the chance.
"I failed," Angel said, suddenly. "I failed him then, Wesley. I couldn't…there was no way in to that place. I tried, but…" He broke off, mouth drawn into a thin line of regret.
No more needed to be said. The deed had long since been committed, a terrible misjudgement that had cost a father his child and Wesley everything he had ever held dear. A bleak emptiness had swallowed the ex-Watcher where once that place had been filled with friends and a purpose. And a slip of a girl named Winifred Burkle.
"You should know," Wesley said, at last, feeling the need to unburden himself, "I never meant Connor any harm. What I did, I did for him."
"I know," Angel said, quietly. "I do know that, Wesley. But you should have trusted me." He spared the erstwhile Watcher a glance, then looked away, back to the road. "We were friends."
And that was the most painful part of all. "Yes," Wesley agreed, following Angel's lead and effectively ending the troubled conversation. "We were."
*****
Guard duty was commonly an easy task to perform, yet as Mikhail resolutely kept his eyes on the far wall, allowing nothing but the glow of torches to touch his vision, he reflected that it had turned out to be a contrary mix of dull and disturbing.
The boy, human though he might appear, was dangerous, feral. Or so the captain had warned his men. At first, Mikhail couldn't see it himself. The kid was young, skinny and wet behind the ears, appearing as though he might snap under nothing more than a harsh word.
But Mikhail, labouring under double-shift duty, had come to be wary of the demon with the visage of a child. Eyes far too old for such a young face belied the masquerade as they peered at him through an unruly fringe of hair, the boy's cocky body language suggesting his captor was little more than game, something to be hunted at leisure.
Two more hours, Mikhail had been told, until they came for the boy. Two more hours of enduring the torture of that disconcerting gaze.
It was enough to make Mikhail want to weep. Guard duty had always been the easiest of assignments. Keeping an eye on a prisoner, making sure they didn't escape or kill themselves. Or chew on their bunk buddies for that matter, like that snargoff demon had once taken upon itself to do. Now that had been an almighty mess to clean up, but again, not the guard's job. That was left to some unlucky slob who had drawn the short straw.
Now, Mikhail would be all too willing to mop up entrails if he could get out from the hell-spawn's sight. Beads of sweat were trickling ticklishly down the side of his face, neck and back, and he told himself it was the torches, contributing to an airless heat, that was making him sweat. Why the priestess couldn't get ventilation installed was a complete mystery to him.
Or better yet, stop living in an underground maze of tunnels and get an office block somewhere in the city.
Reaching for his cantina, Mikhail leant his staff against the wall and fumbled with the bottle's cap. A water-cooler would be nice too, he thought as he drank.
"Hey."
The water suddenly went down the wrong way and Mikhail found himself almost coughing up a lung. Through teared eyes, he glanced up to see the kid wearing a subtle, shit-eating smirk.
"You did that on purpose," Mikhail accused, then winced. He'd just broken the 'no communication with a prisoner' rule and had sounded like a ten-year old in the process.
The kid shrugged one shouldered, then nodded towards the cantina. "Just wanted a drink. I'm kinda thirsty."
That was true, no one had thought to bring the kid anything since he'd arrived, nothing edible at least. They weren't used to dealing with something so humanlike, something that obviously needed watering. Mikhail glanced towards the door, wondering if he should get someone, when the kid spoke again, sounding derisive.
"Come on, I'm locked up here." Tugging on the bars for emphasis, the kid continued, "I promise I won't break you."
Mikhail snorted at that, grabbing his staff and striding towards the cage. "No, but I will break you if you try anything." He levelled his weapon. "Back up."
The kid raised his hands in an excessive display of passivity and stepped back, away from the bars.
Mikhail approached the iron door, ready to put the cantina on the ground just within reach. As he bent down, he momentarily took his eyes from the kid and so would only discover much later what had hit him.
*****
Water shivered under the touch of warm breath, sending ripples crowding to the very edges of the silver cup. Valenza leaned forward and brushed the pad of one finger over the surface, murmuring the incantation with scarcely a sound.
The fading light spilled in from a gap in the cavernous ceiling, casting dappled patterns to scatter about the dust-laden floor. Precisely positioned, the chalice would capture the rays of the pregnant moon as it passed across the night sky, imbuing the waters contained therein with tremendous power.
A skilled Veii priestess could then use the Goddess' gift to great advantage, in battle against the minions of the darkness, or perhaps to enslave such creatures to her will. And, after eight hundred years of toiling beneath the scrolls of her sisterhood, Valenza was a very skilled priestess.
The incantation paused mid-sentence, she raised her head and stared straight ahead. "You come quietly, sister," she said, not bothering to turn towards the presence at her back.
"I did not wish to disturb your preparations, sister," came her reply. "It goes well?"
Valenza looked down at the cup, ran a polished nail around its lip, then rose from her knees, turning to the other Veii. "It goes perfectly," she informed the spelled vision.
The other was perched upon a throne of carved jade, her almond-shaped eyes dark and thoughtful. "You risk much, Valenza, in this latest venture."
"I am weary, Akiko," she countered, standing straight, hands folded demurely before her, the devout sister. "I have earned my freedom from these labours and tonight I shall prove that beyond doubt."
Akiko nodded, hands curled around the lion heads that sprouted from the arms of the throne. "By your standards, I am young, Valenza. Yet even I know the law. Do no harm to innocents. Can you be certain that this child is a servant of the dark?"
"I risk all upon it," Valenza replied, gravely.
"Yes," her sister replied, coldly, "you do."
And with that, the other Veii vanished, leaving Valenza alone in the cavern.
"Goddess," she breathed, pressing a hand to her chest in sudden doubt. "What have I done?"
*****
Swinging with monkey-like agility from the bars overhead, Connor let go and dropped into a crouch, listening intently for any sign that someone without had heard his little scuffle. Hearing no alarms, raised voices or running feet, he rose and put a hand on the cell door, halting its inward swing, the whine of strained hinges falling silent.
The man guarding him was unconscious but not dead, of that Connor was certain. Heeding his promise, he hadn't kicked the door outwards hard enough to do any permanent damage, to break the man, though no doubt the guard would awake with a sore head. Dragging the limp form into the cell, Connor closed the door firmly and turned the key the creature Golgoth had procured for him. Hopefully, he would have time enough to escape his captors before they came for him.
Pausing at the outer doorway, Connor once again listened before slipping out into the corridors. He was lost before he had even begun, unconscious when they had brought him in, yet as he scented the air with inhuman precision, he could smell daylight, filled with fresh air and freedom, ahead. Those were things he would eagerly track in order to exit his shadowy prison, but only if he could avoid further confrontation with those who had captured him.
As he crept round a corner, darting sharp glances both the way he had come and the route ahead, a voice spoke to him from the shadows of a recess.
"Young one."
Connor froze, felt a surge in his veins that made his heart beat all the quicker, pumping blood to his extremities in preparation for battle. His blue eyes, weaker than he would care to admit, struggled to find form in the darkness.
The demon Golgoth emerged, one claw raised to its mouth to caution silence. "This way," it said, and began to back away down the corridor, beckoning, drawing Connor reluctantly forward.
Connor frowned suspiciously as it disappeared through a doorless archway, but followed nonetheless. So far, it had proven its worth to him, giving him the means of escape with the gift of a key and was no doubt even now guiding him towards an exit, for the air was growing fresher still.
"Here," the demon said, as Connor edged cautiously around the corner.
It gestured grandly and Connor approached the rune-wrought door that barred his escape, confident that escape was within reach and all accomplished without any help from Angel or his kooky friends.
The door was cool to the touch and made of a thick, unresounding iron that would be all but impossible to break down. "How do I get through?" Connor demanded, perplexed, angry to be frustrated on the very verge of escape.
Behind him, unknown to him, the demon that was Golgoth began to rise, unfolding scaled limbs to straighten from its four-legged stance. Wings unfurled from a carapace on its back, spreading out with a whisper of leathered skin to engulf the boy before it.
"You don't," it answered, as claws flashed downwards for the kill.