TITLE: Soul Cages
AUTHOR: Eloise
RATING: PG13
DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished.
NOTES: Chapter 2 of 8. This chapter is set four weeks after the prologue. And now we go AU…
The quote referred to by Lilah is from the book "Journey" by Suzanne Massie.
Chapter 2: The Wager
'I have a wager' the brave child spoke
The fisherman laughed, though disturbed at the joke
'You will drink what I drink but you must equal me
And if the drink leaves me standing,
A soul shall go free.'
She glanced again at the buff folder that lay open on her desk. It was unusual to see such attention to detail in this technological age of word processing. Of course, she had seen her fair share of handwritten contracts, but those were usually a century or two old, and generally signed in blood. This was a modern example of exquisitely medieval penmanship, but even a cursory inspection confirmed that it was written in the traditional ink, rather than the less conventional O positive.
'Well, Mr. Teuer, this all seems to be in order. Of course, I'll have to get our contracts department to check through the paperwork...' She smiled a fake apologetic smile and pressed a button on her phone.
The Englishman who sat on the other side of the desk seemed unconcerned. He sat very straight in the comfortable leather armchair, his rigid demeanour belying his age. She would have guessed early fifties, perhaps older, but he carried himself well. Here was a man who cared about his appearance. His shoulders were broad and squared, as if to emphasize his already impressive frame. His hair was dark, liberally peppered with grey, but still very full, and groomed immaculately.
A knock at her office door interrupted her thoughts, and a summer intern slipped into the room diffidently. She handed the folder to the lackey, who slid out as discreetly as possible.
'Mr. Teuer. Can I offer you a drink? The stereotypical cup of tea, perhaps?'
'Thank you, but no, Ms. Morgan.' He leaned back in the armchair, steepling his fingertips together precisely. She imagined there was very little this man did imprecisely.
'Teuer – that's of German extraction, surely. And yet you don't sound German?'
He seemed momentarily impressed by her linguistic deductions. 'Ah. My family came to England a couple of centuries ago. I'm afraid the accent has long been bred out of us.'
Not the genetics though. That tall, muscular build, those steel blue grey eyes. Here was an Aryan if she ever saw one.
A light on her phone flashed subtly. She opened the top drawer of her desk and lifted out the buff folder that now lay therein. She passed it to the Englishman for inspection. He quirked an eyebrow slightly, thus expressing his admiration for the speed and manner of delivery of the contract. She offered a smug but polite smile in return.
'What can I say? My firm rocks.'
He fixed her with an unexpectedly icy look. 'I was unaware of your firm's inherent structural defects.'
She figured that was his way of saying he didn't appreciate the slang. She watched him as he read through the contract, his face impassive. Finally he set down the document, and let out his breath in a quiet sigh. She was beginning to detect the stirring of a conscience under that stony exterior. She put on her most captivating smile.
'Mr. Teuer. It's really very simple. We have access to something you want, and you possess the means to provide access to something we want. Think of it as a mutually beneficial business proposition, rather than a deal with the devil.'
He looked at her thoughtfully.
'All the devil requires, Ms. Morgan, is acquiescence. Not struggle, not weakness. Acquiescence.'
She knew that quote, it was one Holland had whispered softly to her, the one that had broken her.
(Evil is near. Sometimes late at night the air grows strongly clammy and cold around me. I feel it brushing me…)
She shivered faintly, and handed him her pen. 'It's a simple contract, Mr. Teuer, you've read it for yourself.'
He refused her offer of the pen, instead took one from inside his own jacket. He unscrewed the lid, and tipped a fine dusting of iridescent powder on to his palm. He then proceeded to sprinkle it over the contract.
'Ah, here it is.' He seemed quite pleased.
'I'm sorry?' She feigned innocence.
'I fear you're going to be, Ms. Morgan. I'm afraid I won't be signing this until the magically concealed soul-binding clause is removed.'
Damn, but he was thorough.
'You can't blame a girl for trying,' She quipped, sensing that he was more amused than angry.
She pulled out another copy of the contract, which was duly submitted to the same stringent tests as the first. This time he was satisfied, and leaned over to the desk, signed his name with a flourish. She added her own signature, and removed a copy of the contract for the firm's records.
They both stood, and Lilah was again reminded of the imposing presence of the man before her. She slid her well-manicured hand into his, and flashed her most alluring smile.
'It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Teuer.'
*~*~*~*
He gripped the stake in his jacket pocket firmly, and pressed himself into the shadow of a doorway opposite the dilapidated warehouse. It was always an abandoned warehouse, or rundown tenement building, or some such place. Vampires nowadays seemed to lack vision and discrimination when acquiring real estate in down town L.A. He recalled fondly the vampiric source texts he had read as a boy, with their florid descriptions of early European castles and eighteenth century English manor houses. Just once he'd like to discover a nest of vampires living in Beverly Hills luxury. He really was fed up trailing round these squalid slums.
He heard the sound of a car engine and pushed back into the darkness of the doorway. Across the road, a pickup truck pulled up and two people got out. The alley was unlit, and the figures were dressed in black, but he could tell that one was female. She moved to the front of the truck and was briefly illuminated by the glare of the headlights. He saw a face that he would remember to the grave.
Justine.
Her companion tossed her a weapon and then stepped in front of the truck. He only just managed to stifle a gasp. What the hell was Angel's son doing with that woman?
He remained undetected in the shadows, realizing their intentions when he noted the cans of petrol in the back of the truck. Obviously they had been following the same leads, although his planned solution to the problem had been considerably less ostentatious and pyrotechnic in nature. He watched as they doused the interior of the nest with petrol, as Justine flicked a match onto the puddle of petrol.
The resulting explosion sang in his ears, although he had sense enough to throw himself to the ground before the roar hit. When the initial blast had subsided, he peered through his fingers at the scene. The truck was gone; she had managed to get away before the detonation. He stood up slowly, dusting the film of debris from his dark coat. It didn't matter to him, he was getting paid for the job, and paid quite handsomely. The owner of the building had insurance, and this was a solution that would keep him happy. The only thing that nagged at his mind was the thought that it was night. Vampires were, understandably, nocturnal feeders…
Rather pissed off, newly homeless nocturnal feeders, it would seem, by the look on their undead faces…
He sprang to his feet, assessing the threat swiftly. Three vamps, in full game face, had him trapped in the alleyway. He slid his hand into his jacket, and pulled out his crossbow, aiming it at the vamp in closest proximity to him. The poor creature had clearly not been expecting this, he was used to meals that squealed rather than kicked. He looked down in shock at the wooden stake protruding from his chest, before crumbling dejectedly into dust.
His actions had, unsurprisingly, rather aggravated the situation. The remaining vamps did not seem overly terrified by him; in fact, they were both bearing down on him with alarming haste.
'Shit, he killed Kenny!'
The vamp that reached him first had been made in the eighties, if his tragic fashion choice was anything to go by. He sported a black 'Frankie Says…' T-shirt and a chunk of hair that hung over one eye, New Romantic style. His allegiance to the hairstyle of the era was currently the only thing working in Wesley's favour; the vamp had to keep pausing during the fight to sweep the quiff out of his eye. Wes swung again with his stake, and earned himself a knee in the gut.
'I know someone who could recommend a good brand of hair gel,' He hissed, doubling over in pain, waiting for the finishing blow.
It came, but not to him. There was a sudden flash of steel above him, as the vampire and his
tragically coiffured head parted company. He sucked in a swift breath, and struggled to his feet, in time to see his saviour caught in the clutches of the third vampire. The creature held him across its chest, preventing any attack by stake or crossbow. Wes pulled out his gun and pointed it at the vampire's head.
'Dude, you're dumber than you look. You can't kill me with that.'
Wes pressed his finger to the trigger, and a jet of holy water hit the last vamp square in the eye. The unholy shrieking of the creature was ended instantly, as his newly freed captive shoved his stake home with unexpected force.
They spent a few moments breathing heavily, neither speaking. Then Wesley stood up straight and met the other's eyes.
'Thank you, Connor.'
He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, reciprocal gratitude, perhaps, or feigned indifference. Certainly not a hand around his throat, shoving him against the alley wall, almost strangling him. He was his father's son, alright, react first and ask questions later.
'How do you know my…that name?' His voice low, the accent held a trace of something familiar. He did not answer, could not, not with that surprisingly strong hand almost cutting off his air supply. And then abruptly it was gone. He sucked in a lungful of air. The boy was staring at his neck in wonder.
'Your scar. Did you come by it battle?' He seemed captivated.
'No, not exactly.' A badge of dishonour he would wear all his life, his branding as a traitor. 'Your friend, Justine, gave it to me.'
The dark eyes widened in astonishment. 'You're him. You're the one. The one they won't talk about. You're the one who saved me. Wesley.'
It hurt. He had known that they had banished him, that he was nothing, meant nothing to them now. And yet he was still surprised how much it hurt to hear it again. As if Connor had reached up and ripped a jagged blade across his damaged throat.
'My father told me about you.'
He was astonished that Angel had even mentioned his name to the boy. It took him a moment to realize that Connor was not talking about Angel. He meant Holtz.
'He said you were a good man.' The boy spoke with a quiet certainty, as if these things could not be disputed. As if things were black or white.
'Connor, where's Angel? Does he know you've been out patrolling with Justine?'
For the first time he saw uncertainty in the boy, his eyes dropped, and he twisted his booted toe in the dirt.
'He doesn't know… I'm here.' He lifted his face again, dark eyes pleading. 'You won't tell him, right?'
'Connor, I assure you I'm in no position to tell Angel anything. Your secret is quite safe with me.'
He paused, unsure what to say. After all, it was none of his business if Angel's son wanted to risk life and limb on death or glory missions with that homicidal bitch. Only that wasn't strictly true. Just a couple of months ago, it had been so much his business that he had almost lost his life trying to protect this boy.
'Justine isn't as trustworthy as you might think. She has some… issues with your fath… I mean Angel.'
He suspected Connor had guessed as much, from the guilty look in his eyes.
'I know she had done things which are wrong. But she fights evil, tries to protect the innocent.' He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. 'I can't talk to them. They just don't understand.'
He raised his eyes to Wesley's face, and he recognized the loneliness in the boy. Maybe that was the reason he dug into his pocket and produced a small white card. He scrawled his address and 'phone number on it, and handed it to Connor.
'If you want to talk, you can find me at this address most evenings. Look, it's probably best if you don't tell Angel you've seen me. I've grown quite attached to my throat.' He smiled encouragingly at the forlorn looking child. 'Things will get better, Connor, they always do.' He lied.
Connor nodded uncertainly, then turned to go, lifting his hand in a half wave.
Wesley waved back, fully expecting never to see the boy again.
*~*~*~*
She eyed the man opposite her warily. He was good looking in that glaringly obvious way. Athletic build, clear complexion, he put her in mind of Buffy's soldier boy squeeze… She cut off that train of thought promptly, it reminded her altogether too much of the nightmares she'd been having recently.
He was in his late twenties, clearly spending most of his free time at the gym, judging by the muscles that rippled discreetly under his extremely well cut suit. His hair was perfect, not a strand out of place, but she could see the early signs of recession at his temples, and smiled spitefully. The guy would be bald before he hit forty.
He paused in his monologue, suddenly sensing that her attention had wandered during his lecture.
'Faith, are you listening to me?'
She rolled her eyes. 'Yeah, yeah, Wolfram and Hart, blah – di – blah, good behaviour, get out of jail free card…'
He pursed his lips. Not a good look for him, she thought, made him look like somebody's scandalized maiden aunt.
'It would behove you to pay attention when I am talking' He said snippily.
She narrowed her eyes. 'Lee Mercer still working at your firm?' she inquired casually.
He looked blank. 'I'm not aware of the name, and I fail to see what this has got to do with the present situation.'
She drummed her fingers lightly on the table. 'Nah, guess he was before your time. He was the last guy who told me what it would behove me to do. Needed some pretty extensive reconstructive facial surgery, if I remember rightly.'
He paled visible, glanced over at the guard in the corner of the room. She poked her finger lazily into a cigarette scar on the Formica table.
'Could snap your neck before he could lift a finger.' She said nonchalantly, enjoying the look of raw panic in his eyes. There was no way for him to know she was only playing.
'Tell me, Mr. Mitchell,' she sat straighter in her chair, clasping her hands in mock seriousness.
'How come they sent you? Thought it would have been the other two, the ones who hired me before.'
He smiled superciliously, had undoubtedly done his homework. 'You mean Lindsey McDonald?'
Faith nodded, recalling those cute blue eyes with fondness.
'I'm afraid Mr. McDonald is no longer with the firm. He had a crisis… of conscience.'
That sounded unpleasantly like a euphemism for something more permanent than firing.
'He's dead?'
'Well, no. Mr. McDonald took some… insurance with him when he left. I believe he's out West somewhere.'
She cracked a broad grin. Hell, she had liked that lawyer. Nice to hear he had a conscience tucked under all the Armani. Plus a wicked sense of self-preservation. Reminded her of a cowboy she once…well.
'What about the lady, the one who looked so good in green? She have a conscience crisis too?'
His eyes widened, and he actually looked a little scared. 'Ms. Morgan. She's my boss. Head of Special Projects.'
Faith let out a low whistle. 'So, no glass ceiling at Wolfram and Hart, then. And she needs me.'
The self-confident smirk returned. 'There is no needing involved. My company have simply been working on your behalf, attempting to address a miscarriage of justice.'
'Yeah, right. And the minute I'm sprung, your firm's going to come running, looking for me to do some dirty work.'
'I'm shocked that you would suggest such a thing. Wolfram and Hart would never be involved in any dealings of an illegal nature.' She wondered how he could say that without his nose growing. 'I assure you, once you are no longer incarcerated, you will owe our firm nothing. You will be a free agent'
'Do I have a choice?' she asked quietly.
He gave her a pitying look, as if he couldn't believe she would rather stay in jail than accept his offer.
'To be honest, no. This is a done deal. You're getting paroled whether you like it or not.' He stood up, lifting his briefcase and flashing his unnaturally perfect teeth at her. She fought the urge to undo all the orthodontist's good work.
'So when can I get out of the joint?'
'The paperwork is already through. This meeting was just a formality. You'll be released first thing tomorrow.' He turned crisply on his heel, and then paused at the door. 'Good luck, Faith.'
She sighed heavily, let her shoulders slump a little. She was going to need all the luck she could get.
*~*~*~*
(The next evening)
She rolled over, felt the cool cotton sheet under her warmed body. He rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. She liked this part. Watching him. Seeing the internal struggle as he tried to reconcile his devotion to the forces of right with his current behaviour. The conflicting emotions within him sent him spiralling into dark, dangerous moods, which always managed to turn her on. The self-disgust he felt afterwards simply completed the rather delightful vicious circle.
She was no longer sure if she wanted him to join the firm. Of course, she had her instructions, but this was just such fun. She was enjoying the battle so much more than she had ever imagined she would. Perhaps all that would change if he became the good little company boy. No, she liked this quality of menace about him, didn't want to lose it.
She leaned over and poked him between his ribs, aiming her finger deliberately at the purpling bruise over his kidney.
'Out fighting the good fight, last night?' Her tone gently mocking him.
He slapped her hand away, hard enough to make her hiss. 'Shut up, Lilah.' Low voice. Warning voice. Don't push it Lilah voice. Her favourite.
'Now, now, Wesley, didn't your daddy teach you never to hit a lady?' She purred, knowing she was getting to him. She had found out quite recently that mentioning his father was a good way to piss him off.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed very hard, until she gave a tiny whimper. Immediately he let go, and gave her that look, the slightly raised eyebrow, suddenly aware that she was playing him.
'Hm. I guess this is a side to your personality Angel and his playmates don't get to see.' Pause for effect. 'Oh, except when you fall under the influence of some nasty misogynistic homicidal bastard.'
He was onto her now, put one hand under his head and viewed her with an amused half smile.
'I hear he helped Mr. Park rearrange your face. Such a pretty face.' He mused, pinching her cheek delicately between his thumb and forefinger. 'Such a shame to spoil it.'
'Oh please, enough with the idle threats. You know I don't scare that easy.' She shifted onto her side, moved a little closer to his lean frame. 'It's weird though. I admit I was trying to reach your dark side. I just never guessed you had so much in you.'
'Keep digging, Lilah.'
She took it as an invitation.
'Was it Billy, I wonder. Did he change you?' She pretended to think. 'No, he just brought it out. I think the darkness was already there.'
He lifted his watch. 'Are you almost finished? Only we're almost past the hour and I don't want to have to pay extra for the therapy.'
'The analysis is free.' She was a bit annoyed that he had thrown her out of her stride.
'That dark place inside you. He opened it.'
Now she was getting somewhere. He blinked quickly, and she thought she saw a little shudder run through him.
'Maybe it was Faith.'
Direct hit. He scowled furiously and she reached over to trail a fingernail across his collarbone, following the jagged scar line.
'I know you like the bad girls, Wes. Did you like it when she made you scream…'
Damn. She had gone too far. He was out of bed, pulling on his shorts roughly. He lifted his clothes, the half bottle of Black Bush, and stomped off into the living area. She sighed softly. That was it for tonight, then.
She slipped her silk blouse over bare shoulders; wriggled her hips into her merino wool skirt. Almost forgot her silk underwear. She lifted it, but did not bother to replace the garments. Let him see what he was missing.
She was already beside the couch when there was a knock at the apartment door. Wes threw her a disgusted look and moved to open it. She stared coolly at the visitor, then slipped past, trailing her bra and panties languidly in her hand. She met Wesley's mortified gaze with a smug little smile.
'It's a business doing pleasure with you, Mr. Pryce.'
