TITLE:  The Caged Birds Sing

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 5. This was supposed to be Faith's chapter, really it was. But the more I tried to write Faith, the more Lilah wanted to be heard. And what Lilah wants, Lilah gets. So it's her turn next.

Thanks for the reviews guys! Sorry for messing with your head, Wesless, but you can read these as character studies for the show (without recourse to 'Soul Cages'). But if it gets you reading 'Soul Cages' again, then I shouldn't complain. Donnatella – you sweetie! Just want to let you know that we'll be hearing from Wes quite soon, though Angel won't be getting a chapter! Remember those five lost souls…

Title for this chapter comes from Soul Cages Chp1. The quotes on the nature of evil and the devil come from the book 'Journey' by Suzanne Massey.

Chapter 2: An Old Friend – Lilah

'Darkness falling. She felt it, in him, recognized it as an old friend, now come to fill up his heart.'

(Lilah Morgan – 'In the Chaos of Cages')

She glanced at her reflection in the window of the bistro, noting with pleasure that she was the best-dressed woman there. Having said that, she guessed that most of the other women in the bistro were not there as a part of an ongoing job interview for Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys at Law. Even so, you'd think they could have made more of an effort.

That was one of things she could thank her mother for.

'Always dress nicely, Lilah dear. You are always on show. Never be caught without your makeup, your hair undone, non-matching underwear.'

She had taken her mother's advice today.

'That dark green Donna Karan, darling, it brings out the emerald in your eyes.'

She crossed her legs carefully, was pleased with the effect; a little hint of creamy thigh tantalisingly visible though the split in her pencil straight skirt. She ran perfectly french polished nails through her auburn hair, now a little shorter than she had worn it at grad school. Brought her hand down to admire the one and a half carat Cartier diamond which now adorned her forth finger.

It was a beautiful ring. So pretty that she really hadn't thought about the consequences of actually accepting it when it was offered. Mark was undeniably perfect husband material; handsome in that typically blue-eyed, golden-haired way, reasonably intelligent, from an extremely wealthy and well-connected family. Her mother was in raptures about the engagement.

'So proud of you, darling, a wonderful catch. Such good genes. The two of you will make beautiful babies…'

She curled her lip at that, took another sip of the skimmed milk latte she had ordered as she waited for her 'date'. Mark was simply another part of her wardrobe; she put him on when she went out for the evening, and took him off just as simply when they came home. Well, that part wasn't quite true. She simply switched herself off. She knew Mark hadn't noticed; he seemed perfectly content with their relationship. But then she had become very adept at it. Years of practice will do that to you.

She gave herself a little mental shake. Not today. We won't be going there today, Lilah. She set down her coffee cup and dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin.

'Ms. Morgan?'

The voice was warm and friendly; she looked up to see a pleasant gentleman in his early fifties, wearing a Saville Row suit. She stood up to greet him.

'Mr. Manners.'

He held her hand in his for a few moments, his surprisingly pale blue eyes meeting her own very steadily.

'Forgive my tardiness, but I was unavoidably detained – office business, you know?'

She nodded, and he flashed her a wide, almost wolfish grin, then sat down opposite her.

'What would you recommend?'

She wasn't sure if he was being polite, or if the interview had started already, so she shrugged her shoulders minutely, and studied the menu.

'The lobster and paw-paw salad seems good…'

Again those pale blue eyes flashed her a piercing look, and then dropped to his own menu.

'Lobster salad it is, then.'

He set the menu back on the table, and folded his hands deliberately in front of him.

'You may be wondering why we asked you here today.'

She had been wondering exactly that, but took pains not to show it.

'Of course, it's your firm's prerogative to conduct job interviews wherever you see fit.'

'How charmingly diplomatic, Ms. Morgan. May I call you Lilah?'

She smiled her assent.

'You're aware that you've already met all our firm's requirements in your academic achievements?' Again she nodded. 'And you've undergone our mandatory psychological testing at the primary interview stage.'

He paused, picked at a non-existent thread on his cuff.

'At Wolfram and Hart, we like to get to know our potential employees a little better; so we conduct a more informal interview in a less intimidating setting. Hence the surroundings.'

He waved his hand airly.

A waiter approached, and they gave their orders, both choosing the lobster. Lilah wondered if perhaps it was part of the interview after all.

As they waited for the food to be brought, the older man began again.

'We want to get to know the real you, Lilah, the woman beneath the high honours graduate from Mortonson.'

'Well, Mr. Manners, I'm not sure…'

'Please, call me Holland.' He interrupted, with a disarming smile.

She almost blushed.

'Holland, I'm not sure I can add much to the interview I gave at your offices.'

'Oh, but I'm sure you can. I'm absolutely convinced of it.'

Their meals duly arrived, and Holland began to talk as he ate, skilfully drawing her into the conversation, getting her to reveal little glimpses of herself she liked to keep hidden. She realized suddenly that Holland Manners was a very dangerous man.

'And who's the lucky man?'

She blinked quickly, followed his gaze to the empire cut diamond, radiating light.

'Oh. My – my fiancée, Mark'

She was obscurely ashamed of him, as if he did not belong in this place, in this conversation

'Have you been engaged long?'

'No. Only a few weeks.'

It was still a shock to her, when she remembered it.

'It's important to have ties in our job, my dear. Something to ground us. Sometimes I think my Catherine is the only thing keeping me sane.'

He smiled, but this time the smile did not reach his eyes.

'The choices we make now will affect the rest of our lives. Family is very important, my dear.'

His blue eyes glowed with intensity.

'I'm sure your family is very important to you…'

He knew.  She had told no one, not a soul knew or even suspected it. She had made very sure of that. And this seemingly kindly old man had somehow figured it out.

*~*~*~*

'Mom?'

She pushed open the front door, lifting her hand in a half wave to Elizabeth's mother, who tooted the Merc's horn and swung out of the gravel driveway.

'Mom, are you home?'

There was no answer from the dining room, which was in darkness. She was late back from ballet rehearsals, as Vicki Cooper had come down with the flu, and Miss Forrest had asked Lilah to stay behind and practice the role of Coppelia, in case Vicki didn't recover before Saturday's recital.

'Mom, I got the lead!' She called again, tossing her bag into the hall closet, about to head up the stairs.

'Lilah, is that you?'

Her heart sank. If only she hadn't yelled so loud when she had first come in, she could just sneak up to her room, and she wouldn't have to talk to him…

Her stepfather's head appeared at the door of the den.

'You're late. Your mother said you'd be home around five. It's almost seven now.

'I had to stay late to rehearse.' She tried to make her tone pleasant.

'You should have called. I was worried.'

She bit back all the sarcastic comments that were queued up in her brain, and tried to sound sincerely apologetic. For her mother's sake.

'Sorry, Mike. I forgot.'

He seemed mollified by this, and turned to go back into the room.

'You teenagers think the world revolves around you,' he muttered, sitting down on the couch again.

She took advantage of his distraction and started to go upstairs.

'Did you eat yet?'

Damn. She came to the door of the den.

'Elizabeth's mom gave me dinner.' She lied.

'Your mom said to make sure you ate.'

He gave her a long look, his eyes lingering over her firm stomach, and she felt a familiar flash of uncontrollable rage. God, she hated him so much. She slipped her hand behind her back, letting it tighten into a fist, nails digging hard into the palm of her hand.

'I ate already. Look, Mike, I've got tons of homework.'

'Go on, then. Your mom'll be back at ten.'

He sat back on the couch, and she went upstairs to her room, turned the key in the lock.

After a few minutes, she heard his heavy tread on the stair, and he tried her door handle.

'Lilah, come on. You know she doesn't like it when we fight. It's so much nicer when we're friends…'

She closed her eyes and went to the door.

Darkness fell.

*~*~*~*

'Do you believe in evil, Lilah?'

She stared at him as if he had asked her if she believed in fairies. This was obviously one of those metaphysical moral questions that law firms used to decide how willing one was to defend the rights of a confirmed criminal.

'You mean, evil in people? Of course. Absolutely no doubt.'

'No. I mean, do you believe in evil as a power, an entity in its own right?'

She wasn't sure what he was asking her.

'The devil, you mean?' She asked incredulously

He gave her a hooded look, his pale eyes sparkling

'Some call it by that name, yes.'

'I – I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it…'

'Oh come now, Lilah, we both know that's not true.'

She simply stared at him.

He smiled sadly at her, then leaned forward, conspiratorially

'Evil is near. Sometimes late at night the air grows strongly clammy and cold around me. I feel it brushing me…'

No. It was not possible that he could know this. She pushed her chair back hard, its feet grating across the marble tiled floor so loudly that the people at the next table stopped talking and stared.

'No. I won't do this. I won't go there.'

'Sit down, my dear.'

He sounded very calm, had the tone of a psychiatrist coaxing a suicidal patient off a window ledge. She pushed her chair back in, and reseated herself, shaken by his acuity.

'How did you – How could you know?' She asked incredulously.

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully.

'I make it my business to know everything about prospective employees.  Everything.' He stressed.

'So we've established that you're at least acquainted with evil. You have a working knowledge of it, if you will.'

She found his matter of fact attitude strangely refreshing. He didn't seem in the least shocked, simply treated this as another piece of information on her resume.

'It's important that you understand how we work here at Wolfram and Hart, Lilah.'

Oh, she understood that, alright. Junior Associate came with a package unrivalled by any of the other firms she had approached. Company car from a list of luxury European manufacturers, Health and Dental to die for, a clothing budget that would keep her in Prada for the rest of her natural life.

'We look for people who have the ability to see things in a,' he paused, as if searching for the correct phrase, 'more pragmatic light.'

His eyes met hers, and she held his gaze steadily.

'I believe you possess that ability, my dear. You see, it's not really about evil. Or good, for that matter. It's all about power, and who wields it.'

He stopped again, and took a sip of his coffee.

'At the minute, he has the power.'

He was right. Even now, years later, she was allowing it to affect her, in the way she conducted her relationships. She was simply an absent partner. She had become so skilled at it that most of them didn't even realize she wasn't there. And she was never there, never in the dark.

'You could change that, Lilah.'

His voice was so soft, so gentle, belying his words.

'Like I said, the choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life. I wonder if you're ready to make those choices.'

He cleared his throat.

'Difficult choices. Perhaps morally unconscionable choices.'

'I'm not sure I understand.' Though she understood perfectly what he was suggesting.

'Oh, I think we understand each other very well, my dear. The question is, are you willing to make that choice?'

She lowered her head, thought of a stolen childhood, of darkness falling around her.

'Do it.'

He smiled broadly.

'Ah, Lilah. I knew you had potential.'

'Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Manners. Make sure he suffers.'

'But of course, Ms. Morgan. I think you're going to do just fine at Wolfram and Hart.'

*~*~*~*

It was a beautiful bright July day. The sunlight was gently diffused by the leaves on the beech trees, providing dappled shade from the heat of the late afternoon. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, adjusted the brim of her hat with a perfectly manicured hand, then placed it demurely in her lap.

Gazing down at her hands, she was suddenly aware of how bare her finger looked now. Not that she missed Mark. He had been heartbroken when she had returned the ring, claiming her grief as an excuse not to marry. Not so soon after her stepfather's tragic accident. But she missed the ring.

The minister droned on about the resurrection and the life, and how we shall all be changed. All lies, all of it, the bastard was on an express ticket to hell which she had bought, and paid dearly for. But it had been worth it.

When the police had come to the house to inform her mother of the accident, she had revelled in their description of the incident. It was a miracle he had survived the initial wreck, let alone exist for the three weeks afterwards in intensive care. Seventy percent third degree burns, the doctors had confirmed. By all rights, he should have died within hours of the accident.

And yet he had lingered. Her mother was, of course, completely distraught, unable to fill out any of the medical papers. Lilah had willingly stepped into the breach.

'Really, Ms. Morgan, we would recommend a Do Not Resuscitate Order in burn cases such as this. Your stepfather is in terrible pain.

She had raised a trembling hand to her eyes, dabbed at them delicately with a tiny handkerchief.

'But there must be something you can do, surely? Plastic surgery, or reconstruction? We mustn't give up hope. For my mother's sake.'

And he still he had lingered. She had kept a bedside vigil that was admired by the hospital staff. Such devotion to her mother, such care and attention paid to her stepfather. You didn't see that kind of familial feeling much these days.

She sat by him in his plastic tent, drinking in every moment of excruciating pain in his tormented existence. Every breath a laboured wheeze, every movement magnifying the agony a thousand times. And he was always conscious. He watched her fearfully, as if he knew her as the author of his fate. She stared back at him, kept her emotions firmly in check, her eyes icy cool.

When he had given way at last, she had leaned over the plastic tent, put her lips as near as she could to the charred flesh that had once been his ear.

'Goodbye, Mike. Welcome to hell.'

The mourners were moving off now, and she adjusted her Chanel skirt before unfolding her long legs. She gave her mother's hand a reassuring squeeze.

'Oh, Lilah, darling, you've been a tower of strength. I don't know what I'm going to do without you.'

She leaned forward, brushed her lips against her mother's trembling cheek.

'Mom, you'll be fine.' She extricated her hand from her mother's grasp with some difficulty. 'You know I have to start work next week.'

Her mother sighed.

'I suppose so. It's a wonderful job, darling. I'm so proud of you. My clever little girl.'

She almost smiled at that, then noticed a limousine parked a little further away than the others.

'Mom, I have to go and speak to someone.'

'I trust the arrangements were satisfactory?'

He gave her that wolfish grin, his pale eyes twinkling.

'Oh, very.' She removed her dark glasses, and gave a demure little smile. 'But I'm guessing you're not here to pay your respects.'

He laughed then, and opened the briefcase that sat beside him on the leather seat.

'How refreshingly direct you are, my dear.'

He removed a sheet of paper from the briefcase, then closed it again, and set the paper down on top. He leaned over to the fridge and retrieved a bottle of Moet and Chandon, along with two crystal champagne flutes. He uncorked the bottle expertly and poured the sparking liquid into the glasses.

'Ah, shouldn't I sign first?' She asked, a little surprised at his premature triumph.

He smiled in an almost paternal way, and handed her the contract. Her name was already there at the bottom, signed, it seemed, by her own hand.

'But I didn't sign yet!' she protested rather feebly.

'Oh, but you did. All the devil requires, Ms. Morgan, is acquiescence. Not struggle, not weakness. Acquiescence.'

She stared at him for a long moment, then gave her shoulders a brief shrug, and accepted the proffered glass of champagne.

'Here's to new beginnings, Mr. Manners.'

He raised his glass to meet hers.

'Welcome to Wolfram and Hart, Ms. Morgan.'

She might be headed to damnation, but she was sure as hell going to enjoy the ride down.