Author's Notes: Kyria
thanks SCWL for all of the fun feed back, and of course the thanks the hot half
nekkid guy who, unfortunately, is not so half nekkid anymore. (It is cold and
rainy where Ky lives, which means HNG put on a shirt. If you happen to
drive through a small town in IL, and see a short blond woman leaving a trail
of damp kleenex behind her while she binges on chocolate covered peanuts,
remind her, it is only 34 weeks until summer! On second thought,
just keep going.)
Nina, still reeling from her most recent midterm and the resultant brain
meltdown, wants to thank Ky for picking up all the slack and still taking the
time to lend an ear and a shoulder when I needed it... THANK YOU!
Special recognition to Murphy for his unbiased enforcement of the law and
'Hank' and 'Mark' for keeping SQL entertaining.
Specks says: "I would like to thank my wonderfully crazy coauthors. Arent
they wonderful? *looks at readers pressuring them to agree*. See? You guys are
wonderful! Even our readers think so! Also as usual the penguin who's quack is
worse than her bite. he he. And of course the readers! You poor poor subjected
people!"
The NC-17 rated version of this chapter may be found at www.concordia-discors.com
***
A ribbon of moonlight streamed across the calm ocean as he sat lounging at the
seaside bare and grill. A couple walked up the white sandy beach that
seemed iridescent in the light of the full moon. They climbed the stairs
walking across roughly hewn stone, which gave the casual, beachside eatery at
the Hyatt Regency a medieval look. Whistler drunkenly grinned as he
downed the limey remnants of his Corona. With a contented sigh, he
glanced at the scantily clad patrons and smirked. Lithe beauty surrounded
him, long legs, tanned skin, the faint scent of coconut oil, and sleek expanses
of tanned skin… This was the life, an honest to Goddess vacation. It was
about damn time.
"Excuse me, sir?" A snotty voice sounded, interrupting his reverie.
Glancing up, the half-demon noticed a very unnatural looking blond waitress
glaring at him. Her deep brown eyes looked oddly familiar, as did her
lime green suit. Drunkenly, he shuffled through his mental Rolodex, which
wasn't too organized when he was sober let alone in the happy twilight stages
of drunkenness, and considered the possibilities…
"I know you from some where," he slurred, jabbing a finger in the
woman's general direction.
"No shit, Sherlock," she snarked at the relaxed demon.
He crinkled his forehead, wondering what he could have done to offend the woman
in front of him, "Look, I'm sorry if we've, ah… ya' know, knocked boots
and I don't remember it…"
"In your dreams, circus freak," she muttered with a graceless snort.
Whistler sat up in straight in his chair, and glowered at the skinny,
big-boobed, badly dressed bitch standing in front of him. He knew that
tone- in fact, he'd know *that tone* anywhere.
"What the fuck do you want, Cordelia?"
She slammed an ice-cold coffee concoction in front of him, letting some of the
drink's contents splatter the white linen table cloth and spat, "The Mocha
Bitcas request your presence at the main office; you forgot to update them on
who was offing slayers before you left on vacation, moron."
"Who the hell are The Mocha Bitcas?" sputtered the short
"man" as he lifted the drink to his nose, trying to detect whether or
not the woman whom he got demoted had poisoned the frothy beverage.
Slinging the small round tray she'd used to transport his drink on to her side,
she rested one hand on a curvaceous hip as she glared down her nose at him,
"The Powers That Be, GOD, what do you mean who are The Mocha
Bitcas?! They are your BOSSES after all…"
Whistler groaned, not being able to follow the annoying creature's train of
logic at all. Dimly he remembered leaving the report in question on his
desk; he hadn't delivered it to the Girls as he was supposed to.
"Shit," he growled to himself.
"Are you COMING?" the blond asked over her shoulder as she headed
towards a portal that appeared in the midst of the tropical foliage surrounding
the bar, "We have to stop by a Starbucks on the way back, so hurry the
hell up."
"Christ, woman! What is it with you and coffee drinks anyway?"
he grumbled as he followed her back to work.
* * *
Still clad in Bermudas and flip-flops, Whistler grasped his report with sweaty
hands as he headed up the stairs to the entrance of the main office. The
Girls were not going to like this, he grumped to himself, reading and walking
at the same time.
The first leg of the project was taking care of itself. That was ages,
literally, ago when he dragged the insane vampire out of yet another alley, and
as no good deed went un-punished, the PTB's had left him in charge of more and
more of their "pet project".
Angel, surprisingly, had shaped up quickly. Within the first few weeks,
he had fallen into line, towed the rope… became a good soldier, so to speak.
Well, as much as a soul who shared a body with the most malevolent demon that
had ever come into existence could. It was amazing how quickly the guy
had gotten it together… Almost magical, the demon speculated, rifling through
papers until he ran smack into what felt like a brick wall.
"Hey! What the fu…" he started to exclaim, until he glanced up
at the Amazon standing as a barrier to the entrance of the main office.
"Myrina! Congratulations on your new post…" he sputtered before
trailing off uncertainly as she pulled a flaming sword from a snake skin
sheath. She was the fifth Angel of Death hired since Eir had taken over
the Main Office's security detail; none of the previous employees were up to
the standards set by the tactical Goddess of War. He wasn't sure what
happened to those that couldn't cut the mustard, maybe they were
banished… He shuddered, considering the other forms of possible
punishments.
"What is your purpose, demon," the wild-eyed woman asked, looking him
up and down. She shifted her weight on the balls of her feet as she moved
from side to side. The spirited warrior's dark skin gleamed in the
dancing light of her sword's flame.
"Just here to update the PTBs," he answered, backing slowly away from
the heat that radiated off of the newly hired AoD's weapon.
She considered him momentarily, and sheathed her weapon. The marble arch
that marked the PTB's entry, took on a cold blue-ish coloring as the sword was
extinguished. The Amazon reached into her snakeskin pouch and pulled out
a Handspring. After pressing a few buttons, she glanced up at the
trembling half-demon.
"You were supposed to turn that in a week ago, they have about fifteen
minutes before their next appointment, you'd better get in there and make it
snappy."
She neatly slipped her PDA back into her pouch and made way for his entrance.
Whistler padded through the winding hallways, his footwear making a popping
sound with each step. Christ, this was so embarrassing. He came
around the final curve and up to the PTB's private chambers. Reverently,
he knocked on their door and waited. The door opened a sliver through
which he could see a black eye consider him suspiciously. Abruptly the
door flew open, as the youngest of the three burst through
"About damn time!" The blue haired one gripped, grinning ear to
ear, "I was afraid you got lost out there bending time… Thank Us that
you're OK!"
The elder sister stood behind Eir, her arms crossed as she stared at him
angrily. Eir ignored the blond's threatening stance and threaded her arm
through the crook of his elbow, pulling him into their chambers.
"We've got pizza and beer… Heck I even had Cordy bring us up some
Corona! Make yourself at home," the energetic goddess bubbled as she
called out to her older sister, "De! Whistler is here!"
Whistler shuffled through the different copies of the report, "I have some
bad news…"
"Bad news?" De asked, crinkling her brow as she entered the living
space of their private chambers, "Is Angel OK?"
He nodded his head in the positive, "Angel is all right, it is the slayer
issue that is causing me headaches."
"Yeah," Coeur said, "We were expecting that. What force of
darkness is taking out our warriors now?"
The three "women" plopped themselves into their favorite sitting
positions. Eir looked at him from the largest slate colored couch, laying
flat on her stomach, her chin in her hands as she considered the demon's words.
The Goddess of Love sat curled up in one of the over stuffed chairs with her
tiny legs thrown over the arm. She never looked at him directly unless
she was speaking, and even then, she did it with disdain.
The Goddess of Justice always lay on the floor, propped up by many of the satin
pillows that were strewn half hazard through out the room. Her foot would
tap faster whenever the news he gave them got bad- like right now her foot was
tapping out a staccato beat that a flamenco dancer couldn't keep up with…
He realized that he was stalling, and decided to just blurt it out. I
mean, what was the worst they could do? Fire him? He gulped as the
Goddess of Love and Lust glared his way, he got the impression they could, and
would, do much worse than fire him.
"Well, it is a little closer to home than that…"
"Spit it out demon," Coeur growled, "We haven't got all
day…"
He handed over copies of his report, "It's the Watchers, they're the ones
killing the slayers once they turn eighteen."
* * *
Sitting up in alarm, I clutched a sheet to my breast and listened intently.
From the corner of my eye, I caught chiffon curtains flapping in the breeze…
But I hadn't left my window open. Yanking the sheet from the bed, I
wrapped it around my unclothed body and headed towards the window. It
shut with a thump as I pushed on the sash.
"You look beautiful standing in the moonlight," a velvety voice
murmured from behind me causing a stab of pleasure low in my abdomen.
Eager with anticipation, I turned towards the source of my desire.
"Angel…" I gasped.
With lazy arrogance, he stood leaning against my bed dark, eyes burning into
mine with ferocious tenderness. I stared at his black silk covered torso
and gazed lower, to the black leather pants that hugged every solid inch of his
lower body.
"Nice pants," I crooned walking closer to him and preparing myself
for the promise of satisfaction I saw shining from those dark eyes...
Long minutes later, I lay breathlessly on the bed, calling out his name again
and again...
Only to be interrupted. By MY SISTER!
"Couer!" De yelled from my doorway.
What the fuck! Couldn't she see I was busy? VERY busy?
Angel looked up and with a sexy growl said, "I'm going to make you
scream…"
"Christ, Couer! Wake up!" Eir hollered from behind De.
Shaking my head in confusion, I opened one eye hoping to see someone tall, dark
and vampy.
But, alas, no Angel.
I surveyed the room and saw instead my two sisters standing in my door way with
tired angry frowns on their faces.
"You made him go away," I grumbled sleepily.
"We're going to make YOU go away if you don't stop screaming, 'More Angel,
please more!' in your sleep," Eir glowered, "If I weren't a Goddess,
I'd need serious therapy after hearing that… There are no words to
describe the horror…"
"Get ear plugs," I snarled as I pulled the pillow over my head,
hoping to find my way back to dreamland quick.
No such luck.
"As long as we're up," De chirped, "let's decide what to do
about the Watchers."
I groaned from under the pillow. Old tweedy watchers were *not* fun to
think about. Nekkid Angel, now that was more my style…
"Don't want to," I whined.
Eir pulled the pillow from my head, "If we're up, you're up."
"FINE!" I bellowed glaring at my younger sisters, "What are we
deciding?"
"Didn't you listen to Whistler's report at all? Remember, the new
head of the Watcher's Council came to the conclusion that he is better equipped
to wage the war against the forces of darkness, and slayers are nothing more
than expendable pawns… Remember? Our Demon of Destiny said that The
Watchers are the ones putting out hits on our slayers once they reach their
eighteenth birthday," De said in annoyance.
I raised an eyebrow, ashamed that I had forgotten those important
details. Eir and I had been involved in an intense game of Good Cop/Bad
Cop trying to keep Whistler on his toes. Every time he reported to us, we
switched roles… Eir IS the Goddess of Chaos, after all. I don't have that
lucky excuse of a job. Nope, I just liked to fuck with the little guy's
head. Sue me.
"That is important," I sighed and the previous conversation began to
come into focus, "Didn't Whistler suggest we put Angel on it?"
"Yeah, Whistler said, "Angel," and you totally tuned out the
rest of the conversation, didn't you?" Eir groaned, "Hell, you even
forgot to be Bad Cop. Anyway, isn't Angel ALREADY protecting the slayers
by working with the Order…"
"So, he can do both. The hits are few and far between that he
actually becomes involved in- he could be doing so much more…" I added
dreamily.
"The more he'll be doing isn't you, 'Oh Horney One'…" Eir teased
good-naturedly.
I glared at Eir, "I know he's Buffy's to play with. I have no
intentions of trying to keep him to myself…. You don't screw with destiny after
all…"
"All we have to do is insert Angel's name into the watcher lineage,"
De suggested excitedly, ignoring Eir and I, "And every other decade we
could do a glamour to age him and send him on sabbatical to die…"
"We are NOT killing Angel!" Eir and I roared in unison.
"Of course not!" De said in disgust, "You didn't let me
finish! I'd never REALLY kill Angel…"
I looked at her suspiciously. In reality, I wondered if De wouldn't be
the first of us to seriously consider offing Angel. She had lingering
issues, both with his behavior prior to the coup as well as with his dent-y
forehead, which I thought could easily be made un-dent-y with a few injections
of Botox… Shaking my head, I tried to concentrate on De's plan.
"…But the watcher's council won't understand Angel never aging, so we'll
pretend he dies and then send him back later as his own grandson to take his
place…"
"De," I squealed, "You're a genius! A walking, talking
genius!"
"That way he can watch the Watchers…"
"And protect the Slayers," Eir finished sleepily, nodding her head in
agreement, "Can we go to bed now?"
***
TBC...
And, finally, our apologies today to:
--'Good cop' and 'Bad Cop' for the poor impersonation (imitation *is* the
sincerest form of flattery, no matter how lackluster the performance!)
--Circus freaks everywhere
--Skinny, big boobed bitches (otherwise known as 'the beautiful people'), who
are *not* as bad as people think they are... Really!
--Those who worship at the altar of St. Cordy, we hope our de-throning of her
does not cause too much emotional scarring
--Feminists everywhere who hate it when strong, powerful women are called
"The Girls"
...We're sorry! ;o)
