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 6 of 8. Sorry for the delay in updating, but I did warn that it would be a week between chapters. (Back at work!) I'll do my best to get Chp7 up a bit quicker. I really felt that Angel needed to have a POV this time, so I let him.

Chapter 6: A Dead Accounting

These are the souls of the broken factories

The subject slaves of the broken crown

The dead accounting of old guilty promises

These are the souls of the broken town

Her voice was very small. 'You know why they want me, right?

He did not look at her. 'I have an idea, yes.'

'Tell me. Please.'

She figured it was the please that did it.

'The council will feel you're a lost cause. You turned your back on your calling, your duty. They need a slayer they can control, and that's not Buffy and it's not you, Faith'

He looked away from her, unwilling to continue.

'And Buffy hasn't killed anyone, and she hasn't tortured her watcher, and she hasn't been in jail.'

She knew she should have sounded more scornful, but at the minute all she was managing to sound was scared. Wesley closed his eyes.

'They need a new slayer.'

'I do know how it works, thanks very much, Wes.' Fear made her retort sharper than she intended. 'One slayer dies, another is called.'

'It's not that simple.'

When is it ever, she thought grimly to herself.

'I've read… it has happened before; the council has manipulated the calling of a new slayer. But there are rituals that must be performed. They can't just kill you.'

'Yeah, well, that's comforting. What sort of rituals? 'Cos I'm guessing, not pleasant.'

'I don't know that exact details.'

He rubbed his eyebrow as he spoke, and she wondered what this little gesture signified. Maybe that he did know, and that knowledge was so terrible that he was lying to protect her.

'The books detailing the process are very rare. Only the council's elite inner circle would have access to them. And as you know, Faith, the circles I currently move in are neither inner nor elite.'

He sopped suddenly, smacked his hand hard against his forehead.

'Of course! I'm an idiot!'

She eyed him rather cautiously. 'You'll notice I'm not arguing with that.'

He ignored her. 'A stupid self-centred idiot!'

'Ah, come on, Wes, I wouldn't say that.' He was making no sense at all now.

'I was there, in that room, and I didn't even notice!'

'Wesley. You lost me. What the hell are you babbling on about?'

He refocused, seemed to suddenly become aware of her presence again.

'When the shaman worked the locator spell, it took me to a room that I recognized. I thought it was strange at the time, but I was somewhat preoccupied with finding Angel. I'm sure the books containing this ritual would be kept there.'

'And how do you plan on getting back there?'

He tutted at her, as if he couldn't believe how dim-witted she was. She punched his shoulder in retaliation, and was disappointed to observe that he barely noticed.

'We should go back to the shaman. If he would put me back into the trance, perhaps I could gain access to the books we need. Then at least we would know what we were up against.'

He sounded suddenly like the Wes she remembered from Sunnydale, all hot and bothered over the chance of some mind-numbingly dull research.

'Well, Faith. We can't lounge around here all night. There's work to be done.'

She backed away from him, stared at his collarbone in fascinated horror, half expecting to see a crimson stain flourish under his dark shirt. He stopped too, clearly realizing that something was wrong.

'What? What is it?'

She forced herself to remain calm.

'It's nothing. Just some weird déjà vu thing.' She had played that dream over in her head a hundred times, but to hear those words actually spoken by Wes was just too unsettling.

He threw his leg over the bike and held out the helmet to her. She took a step towards him, then froze.

'Come on, Faith! We don't have much time.'

She tried to get the words out, truly she did. But they moved too fast, and the dart was embedded in his neck before she could warn him. His eyes widened, his hand half rose to the wound before he lost consciousness, toppling off the bike and cracking his head on the edge of the pavement.

The doors of the dark sedan opened and three men got out. Surprisingly tall and muscular, she noted ominously. She stepped back into a fighting stance, hoping to fake them out. The tallest of the three, a blonde, grabbed her wrist as she balled up her fist, ready to strike. Although she was expecting it this time, the strength and firmness of his grip still surprised her. His hand twisted and suddenly she was in a vicious arm lock, feeling the bones in her wrist separating. She struggled and was rewarded with a tightening of the fingers around her wrist. She could not prevent the small squeak of pain that accompanied his manoeuvre.

'Be careful.' One of the others warned. 'We don't want her damaged. Yet.'

Wes had been right. The guy spoke as if he had swallowed a plum, his accent bearing uncomfortable similarities to Sunnydale Wes's.

The Council of bloody wankers.

The third man, clearly one of the muscle, aimed his boot into Wesley's gut. She winced at the sickening crunch of steel toecap meeting soft flesh.

'What about him? D'you want me to work him over and dump him?'

The one who had spoken before shook his head.

'No. He's to be brought with her. Mr. Teuer wants him alive.' He glanced down at Wesley's inert form, a purpling bruise blossoming at his temple. 'And relatively unharmed.'

The crippling grip on her wrist intensified, and she was marched over to the car, shoved into the back seat unceremoniously. A few minutes later, a comatose Wesley landed on top of her, his head smacking smartly against the car door.

God, he was going to have one hell of a headache when he woke up.

A soft moan came from his huddled form, and he opened his eyes slowly, staring up at her. The initial flash of fear she saw in them, gradually subsiding when he got his bearings, dismayed her. He sat up carefully, grimaced as he raised his hand to his forehead.

'How long was I out?'

'Not long. Maybe ten minutes.' She reached out impulsively, and pressed her fingertips to the wound on his neck, which was bleeding a little.

He stiffened, and she drew her hand back quickly, obscurely embarrassed by her actions. He gave her a half-smile and reached over, lifted the hair away from her own neck.

'Snap.' He murmured gently.

'His and hers matching scars, Wes. What all the best-dressed slayers are wearing this season.' She offered, trying to cover her growing unease with a quip.

'You didn't happen to catch where they were taking us?' He enquired in a low voice.

'Not big with the sharing, these guys. We're headed west, I figure, maybe into the suburbs.'

He nodded sagely. 'Taking us to a safe house, I expect.'

'And I'm guessing here, but the term safe doesn't apply to me?'

There was the sound of an electric motor whirring, and one of their kidnappers, the plumy voiced one, turned to address them.

'Good. You're awake. My boss would have been rather upset if you had been permanently damaged.'

'That makes two of us.' Wes retorted, and she chuckled under her breath. 'You're from the Council, I gather.'

'Alistair Hewitt. Class of '95'

As if they were at one of their old school tie reunions. She half expected him to stick his hand out for Wes to shake.

'We'll be there soon. Try to get some rest. Mr. Teuer has a big night planned for you both.'

She had been watching Wesley as the other Englishman was speaking. He leaned forward suddenly, his voice urgent.

'Who did you say?'

The other man shrugged, obviously didn't see any harm in his revelation.

'My boss, Mr. Teuer.'

It seemed as if all the blood had drained from Wesley's face in an instant. He looked sick to his stomach.

'Jeez, who's this guy, Teuer? Is he like the Council's main hit man?'

Wes did not answer for a moment, stared down at his fingernails.

Then looked up at her, his face ashen.

Followed by a total non sequitur.

'You don't, by any chance, happen to speak German, Faith?'

*~*~*~*

He finished the mug of blood that Fred had thoughtfully heated for him. It had felt like he would never be satisfied again, the ravenous hunger that he had experienced on board that boat had been terrifying in its intensity. Like crawling out of the ground when he was newly made, desiring the strongest, sweetest, most intoxicating blood. That of family. His sister, his mother, and of course his father. A liquor infected with love and loathing, bitterness and betrayal. It had been a heady mix, he remembered, and one he had never tired of. That had been proved by his actions tonight, when he had fed from him.

He had not wanted to stop.

To see them together, his once best friend and the child he had stolen, that had broken him. The way Connor looked to him for guidance, reassurance, comfort… oh, he had wanted Wesley punished for that. For stealing his son again. He had enjoyed the look of dejected surprise on his face, when he had issued judgement against him. But he was beginning to realize that Connor would not accept him if he denied Wesley.

Damn the Englishman.

He was sure the boy was beyond terror by now, and made his way up to Connor's room. In truth, he was not planning to punish his child for the mistakes that other people had made. Back on the boat he had seen it in his eyes, real remorse for what he had done. But there was no harm in making the kid sweat it out for a while.

He tapped lightly on the bedroom door and pushed it open. The window was half open, and Connor was long gone. And it didn't take much to figure out where he was headed. Back to kind old Uncle Wes, away from his bad vampire Daddy. He sat down weakly on the bed, the scent of his son strong there. Put out his hand and placed it on the pillow. It was damp, and he raised it to his face, smelling salt and fear and grief.

He had lost him again. And this time he had no one to blame but himself.

He had gone first to the Englishman's apartment, hammered loud enough to wake the dead, undead, and any other demonic entities that might have been abiding there, but it was clear that the apartment was unoccupied. The old lady who lived below had confirmed that Wes had not returned home, after leaving earlier with the hooker and the hoodlum.

His next port of call was the harbour where he had seen them last. He had seen signs of a struggle, as well as a judicious amount of dust in the vicinity. This in turn had led him to his current location, a well-known bar in the harbour area, heavily frequented by the local vamps. He ordered a pint of O positive, and eyed the bartender thoughtfully.

The seemingly human continued to polish an already clean glass methodically and stared right back.

'Don't I know you from somewhere?'

He took a long pull from his glass. 'Don't think so. I don't come around here much.'

'So you're here now because… Let me guess. You need information.' Voice dripping with contempt.

Angel leaned forward and sniffed appreciatively.

'There aren't many of you passing. Only one I knew was half human - on his mother's side.'

The bartender stiffened. 'You knew him? The Promised One?'

He smiled. 'You see, that was meant to be my gig. Damn Irish half-breed had to go and play the hero.'

'You're Angel? Doyle's sidekick?'

Of course. In the Brachen world Doyle was the champion; he was just the understudy. He smiled wryly and nodded.

'Whatever you need, Mister Angel. And the blood's on the house.'

Talk about friends in high places. He mouthed a silent thank you to the great tavern in the sky, pretty sure that Doyle was up there laughing his ass off about now.

'A couple of… friends of mine got into an altercation with some vamps tonight, over by the docks. I was wondering if anyone here knew anything about it?'

'Hot little brunette and a rough looking guy with a throat scar?'

He couldn't quite believe his luck. 'You've seen them, then.'

The half demon shook his head. 'Not in the flesh. There were a couple of guys in here last night, looking for muscle. You know the type. Offering the keys to the blood bank in return for a bit of dirty work. They were flashing around photos of the marks – your friends, I mean.'

'What kind of dirty work?'

The demon leaned forward conspiratorially. 'No killing required. I'm pretty sure there were drugs involved. I saw one of the guys hand over a package – told the vamp to make sure he got her in the neck.'

'You get a good look at these guys?'

'Well dressed, nicely groomed. English accents  - one Hugh Grant, quietly tasteful. One more Sid and Nancy. Quietly vicious.

Angel nodded. Didn't sound like Wolfram and Hart.

'I don't suppose they left an address?' He joked.

The Brachen demon reached under the bar; produced a scrap of folded paper. His eyes positively twinkled.

'Rental agreement. Fell out of his wallet when he was paying.' He handed it over to Angel. 'I do like to know exactly what's going on in my bar.'

'I don't know what to say…' he was overwhelmed by the half demon's kindness.

'Forget it. Any friend of Doyle's… well, you know.'

He nodded; folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket. He was certain that these people knew where Wesley and Faith were. And where he found them, he would find Connor.

*~*~*~*

He placed the lit cigar in the heavy pewter ashtray, which was placed on the occasional table outside the door, and nodded to the man who stood beside it. He was tall and solidly built, his well-defined biceps clearly visible under the blue oxford shirt.

'Allen, I'll give them some time to think over their situation. I'm sure they won't give any trouble, but I'd like you in there, all the same.'

'Yes, sir.'

He liked Allen very much. He was obedient, highly motivated, and well trained in a number of martial arts. Most importantly, he accepted his orders without question, without the whiny doubting that typified many of the Council's younger operatives. There were so few like Allen left. This latest cohort of watchers came from a generation raised to believe that each human life was sacred, that the sacrifice of even a few for the sake of many was an unacceptably high price to pay.

They were fools.

He made his way down the hall to the kitchen; found Hewitt and Ramsey engaged in a game of cards at the table.

'Glad to see you're paying attention, gentlemen.' He said softly, when both men jumped at his entrance. 'We wouldn't want someone catch us unawares.'

Hewitt guiltily pushed his cards to the side of the table, and stood up quickly.

'Can I get you something, sir?' He went to the sink and began to fill the kettle with water. 'A cup of tea, perhaps.'

He sighed heavily. 'That would be pleasant.'

He sat down in the chair that Hewitt had vacated, and looked pointedly at Ramsey. Realization dawned on him, and he stood up too, set off down the hallway to stand guard outside the other room. He closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of the kettle boiling, underscored by the faint sound of sobbing.

It wasn't as if he enjoyed it. But there were always sacrifices that had to be made, and wills that had to be broken. And he had never been one to shy away from doing what needed to be done. One of the reasons that Travers had chosen him for this particular assignment. There were so few of them left now, men who were willing take the consequences of their actions. He knew that ultimately he was on the side of right, and the way of the righteous was indeed thorny.

That brought him to the ex-watcher. He had been pleasantly surprised by the stamina that the younger man had shown. He had initially feared that he would be too weak, would cave in under the slightest pressure, but those fears had proved groundless. It had to be convincing, of course, Wesley must not be allowed to suspect the real reason for Faith's capture. He was willing to take it as far as necessary, force the ex-watcher to carry out the ritual, but for now it suited his purposes very nicely to have the man hold out for as long as possible.

He looked down at his fingers and briefly wondered how much it had hurt. To Wesley's credit, he had not screamed, had simply sucked in his breath as the glowing tip had met with skin, and let it out in a jagged hiss when the cigar was removed. An impressive display of stoicism, and one he would not have believed him capable of.

He raised the china cup to his lips, and sipped, allowing the subtle burn of the hot liquid to travel down his throat unchecked. Hewitt had crept out of the kitchen, presumably to avoid any discussion of what was happening in the room at the end of the hall. He was one of the doubters, too weak to do what was necessary, yet too pathetic to stand up for what he believed in. He despised his hypocrisy, and was rather glad the man had slunk out of the room.

A small, unexpected sound from the hall brought him out of his reverie, set alarm bells ringing. He glanced at his watch, and was relieved to discover that almost four hours had passed since Faith and her ex-watcher had been captured. Ample time for Wolfram and Hart to complete their end of the bargain.

He stood up, and went into the hall, unsurprised to find Ramsey slumped unconscious against the wainscoting. He stepped over him and made his way back to the room. Allen was also unconscious, fresh blood seeping from some minor head trauma. He would live. Hewitt, however, was unfortunately still conscious, as evidenced by his terrified whimpers, as the vampire tightened his grip on his throat.

'I'm curious as to how you managed to access this property, Angel. It is Angel, I presume?'

The souled vampire nodded sharply, squeezed Hewitt's bared throat in a disturbingly tender fashion.

'The landlord was impressed by the price I was willing to pay to acquire this prime example of L.A. real estate.'

With his free hand, the vampire reached into his pocket and pulled out a pulled out a set of keys.

'Of course, threatening to kill his wife and kids was also a factor in wangling an invite.'

'But how did you overcome the wards placed around the building?'  He kept his tone light, conversational.

The creature shrugged. 'Didn't find any.'

He sighed. Looked over at Hewitt, who if possible looked even more petrified. Trust him to bungle the simplest of warding spells. He would wish the vampire had killed him when he had finished with him.

'I'm surprised that you'd bother to rescue him. After all, he did abduct your only son.' He looked very carefully at Wesley as he spoke, but he betrayed no emotion.

'I'm not here for him. Or the girl.'

A reaction this time. Wesley's eyes widened a fraction, a shadow of grief reflected there, momentarily.

'I want to know where Connor is.'

'I haven't the slightest idea.' He smiled pleasantly.

'But he does.' Angel hissed, eyeing the former watcher with undisguised malice.

There was a soft crack, as the vampire snapped Hewitt's wrist, and he moaned, then fainted.

He watched as the vampire untied the rogue slayer and her failed watcher, then reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small gun.

'I'm afraid I really can't allow them to leave.' He said pleasantly, waving the gun rather apologetically.

Angel laughed. 'You think that's going to stop me?' He pointed derisively at the gun.

'I rather think it will. The bullets have been hand forged and blessed by a certain order of Cistercian monks. They've tested relatively well in the field. They won't kill you, of course. But I think death might be preferable to a wound that never heals. All that eternal pain and suffering, it's enough to make you want to throw yourself on a stake, don't you think?'

He was pleased with the effect of his words. The vampire froze instantly, while the two humans eyed the gun warily.

'It will, however, kill you both, so I'd consider carefully any sudden moves you are planning.'

It was the slayer who spoke.

'How can you? You're supposed to work for the good guys!' She was trembling with anger.

'The good guys? My dear girl, you have no concept of what is at stake here.' He raised his eyebrow at her naivety.

'You're bluffing. I can't believe you would actually do this.'

Wesley spoke for the first time since he had entered the room.

'Believe it, Faith.'

They looked at each other. Wesley's eyes full of grim understanding, his of a new found respect for the damaged man who stood before him.

And let his guard down for a second.

A second too long.

The vampire had him by the throat, the gun wrested from his grip. He forced himself to remain calm, even as those icy fingers clamped around his windpipe.

'Now, Mr. Teuer, I want to know where my son is.'

'I'm afraid I can't help you.' The pressure on his neck intensified.

'Consider it a ransom rather than a request. Your life in return for his whereabouts.'

Then so be it. He closed his eyes serenely, as his lungs began to fight for air.

From a distant place he heard Wesley, his soft voice belying the turmoil within.

'No, Angel. Don't kill him. Please.'

The pressure slackened briefly, and he gulped a lungful of oxygen.

'He doesn't need to tell us. It has to have something to do with Wolfram and Hart.'

*~*~*~*

This was not how she had envisioned things working out.

The boy's retrieval had been textbook; he had happily accompanied Mitchell's team back to the office. He had even given her a shy smile, which made her wonder what the hell Wes had told him about her. It amused her enormously to imagine their conversation, Connor's innocent questions and Wesley's circumspect answers.

'You know Wesley.' The boy had stated in a curiously familiar accent, influenced heavily by Holtz's country of origin. That must have pissed Angel off, to hear those proper British undertones in his son's voice.

'Hm. You could say I know him very well.' Her inference had been lost on such a guileless child.

Connor had simply looked puzzled. 'I don't understand. You are enemies; he works for good and you work for…' He had paused, searching for the appropriate words. 'Evil Incarnate. And yet you take pleasure in each other's company.'

She couldn't help smiling at his turn of phrase. There was quite a bit of taking involved in their nocturnal activities.

'I'm sure Wesley explained it to you, Connor. The old shades of grey speech. Wes likes to kid himself that there's a little bit of good in all of us.'

She had been putting him at his ease, would have had the miracle child eating out of her hand, until Linwood interfered.

He had strode into her office officiously, with Gavin gambolling behind him like the sycophantic toad he was.

'I believe you have something I want, Lilah.' His eyes rested on the vampire's child, then addressed him coldly. 'Your daddy is not a very nice man, Connor.'

'He's not a man.' She could have told him that his veiled threats would mean very little to the kid.

'No, he's not. Which makes you very special. I've been wondering for a long time about your exceptional inheritance. Perhaps now I have the chance to find out.

She had not been able to stop him. He was still her senior, with a large network of spies under his jurisdiction, as well as several well-armed operatives. Connor had been swiftly removed from her office to Linwood's suite, up on the seventh floor. Several of the tests had already been carried out, and Connor was looking rather the worse for wear. The mind scans had been relatively painless, but psychologically very traumatic. The physical tests that had been performed thus far had left the vampire's child exhausted.

She watched idly as Linwood fiddled with a switch on the taser, humming softly to himself. It was obvious that he was enjoying this. Connor's dark eyes opened wide as the instrument was brought close to his side, but he no longer struggled against his restraints.

'And this test is meant to demonstrate what?' She leaned on the corner of his desk, feigning boredom.

'His ability to withstand pain.' Linwood answered without turning to her.

'I think by now we all know his pain threshold is high.' She pretended to inspect her nails. 'Higher than yours, at any rate.' She added under her breath.

There was a quiet hum of electrical energy, and Connor made a small noise that could barely have been called a moan. Tough kid.

'You better be careful. The senior partners have sent word that he's not to be damaged. Especially after those scans.'

'Oh, I won't damage him permanently. I'm just exacting a little revenge.'

He was a petty little man. She didn't believe he would have lasted more than a week under Holland. Would have probably have ended up in one of the more bureaucratic hell dimensions, counting an infinite number of paper clips. The thought warmed her heart.

'Sins of the father. Highly original motive. Here's a thought; he spent his infancy and childhood years trapped in the daddy of all hell dimensions; while you got tossed down the stairs by his dad. I'm thinking Connor got the raw end of the deal.'

'Not going soft on us, are you, Lilah?' He looked at her this time, and she wanted to punch his smug face until it bled.

She threw him a disdainful look. 'Not at all. I just don't see the point of wasting our time and resources now that we have the information we require.'

She stood up and walked out of the office. Took the lift to her own, where she came face to face with her erstwhile lover, and the rogue slayer. She managed to hide her surprise incredibly well.

'Faith. Hello. You're looking… well, tired.' She read fury in the other woman's eyes, but for some reason she was not threatening her physically. 'And Wes. You look…'

Wesley looked like shit. Correction. Like it had been beaten out of him. He had the beginnings of a black eye, and there was evidence of trauma to the rest of his face. His left hand was bound inside his jacket with a makeshift sling.

'Enough, Lilah. We're not here to exchange pleasantries. You know what we want.'

She stopped him with a finger to her lips. Slid in behind her desk and scribbled a note on the pad.

"You're looking for Connor?"

Wes nodded, somewhat taken aback by all the cloak and dagger stuff.

"Seventh floor. Linwood's offices.'

He nodded swiftly and turned to leave, slayer in tow.

She spoke again. 'Forgive my frankness, Wes, but you're not going to get very far in the state you're in. Where's Mr. Sandman?'

She liked the way he flinched at that, she still had it.

'Vampire detectors.' He quirked an eyebrow at her, and for just a second she felt a little burn in the pit of her stomach.

'Think I might be able to help you with that.'

They both stared at her then, unable to believe what they were hearing. She smiled conspiratorially, and wrote on the notepad.

"Linwood has it coming."

She quickly scribbled out the details of her plan, and they nodded in stunned silence. She shooed them out of her office to accomplish the rescue, then pushed a sequence of numbers on her phone.

'Sir, it's Lilah Morgan. Head of Special Projects… You have? Well, I'm flattered that you noticed my work.' She paused, listened intently. 'Yes, that was my feeling exactly. You'll arrange for the thresholds to be deactivated, provide a minimum security presence… Of course, sir. We don't want them to suspect anything… No, thank you, sir.'

She put the 'phone down and allowed herself a small smile. She was now in the confidence of one of the most senior Senior Partners; Wesley was now thinking warm 'shades of grey' thoughts about her noble acts of treachery; and most importantly, Linwood was about to get his sorry ass kicked by one seriously pissed off undead dad.

No, this wasn't how she had envisioned things working out.

This was infinitely more satisfying.