"All right people," Angel said. "Pack everything you can carry. We're getting out of here." They were gathered in his office once more – Lorne, Gunn, Fred, Wesley, and Spike. Champions all.
Lorne grimaced. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't gonna end well?" he said.
"Probably because it's not," said Wesley. "If all goes well, the very best we can hope for is to get out of this alive."
"And if all goes badly?" Lorne asked.
"Then it'll be better if we DON'T get out of this alive."
Fred shook her head faintly. "When this is over, Wesley, we need to talk."
Wes nodded.
"I still don't see why I can't be the one to betray you," Spike said.
"People!" Angel said. He glanced at his wrist, where he would have been wearing a watch if he'd bothered to put one on. "Kinda on a timetable here?"
"Just tell me one thing, Angelwings," Lorne said, "If this is so unlikely to end well, why are we doing this? You know, the reasons we came here still apply. We can do a lot of good with the resources of this place."
Angel smiled sadly. "Because it's not about us. Any of us. It's about them. It always has been. The wolf. The ram. The hart. The ones we've been fighting against forever."
Lorne understood that much, at least. The order of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart had caused untold harm to his own world of Pylea as well. After a moment, he spoke again. "Do you seriously think we can beat them?"
Angel shrugged. "Maybe they're not there to be beat. Maybe they're there to be fought. Maybe fighting them is what makes human beings so remarkably strong."
Lorne nodded his agreement.
That was it, then. The fang gang's wills were set, and only death would break them.
Angel, Fred, Spike, Lorne, Gunn, and Wesley turned and went to work.
-----------------------
A
Kingdom By The Sea
An
Angel Crossover Fanfic
by
P.H. Wise
Chapter 4: Unfinished Business
Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.
-----------------------
"Going somewhere, Angel?" Hamilton asked as he stepped into Angel's office. The walls were bare. The swords had been taken down, and several boxes had been filled with miscellaneous items, a mug with '#1 Boss' written on it displayed prominently.
"Just cleaning up the place," said Angel. "I thought it was getting cluttered."
Hamilton glanced about. "Now, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were backing out of the contract you signed when you took over management of this branch of our fine company."
"Appearances can be deceiving, Hamilton," Angel replied flippantly. "I'm sure you know all about that."
Hamilton studied Angel very closely. "... Yes. Yes they can. I warn you, Angel. Our relationship has been mutually beneficial thus far, but if you are considering reneging on our contract, there will be dire consequences."
"Got any other helpful business tips?" Angel asked.
Hamilton shook his head. "No, that's it."
"Then get out of my office."
Hamilton hesitated a moment, and then turned and left.
Angel smiled faintly. One crisis averted – for now, at least. It was time to act.
-----------------------
It was evening when the Immortal called Methos arrived at the Hilton where he had made reservations. Sure, he usually preferred something more down to earth, but once in a while, even very old men (with young graduate student looks) felt the need for a little luxury.
He thought of it as a compensation for having come here in the first place
"Ah yes," the clerk at the check-in desk said, unmoved by the splendour of the lobby that he had worked in for nearly fifteen years. "Mr. Pierson." He produced Methos's room key and slid it easily into his hotel information packet. "If you like, Mr. Stevenson will show you up to your room. Will there be anything else?"
Methos nodded. "I'd like a wakeup call at six A.M."
"Very good, sir," said the clerk.
Methos turned towards the bellhop, Mr. Stevenson, who had already collected his bag. "If you'll follow me, Sir," the bellhop said.
Methos followed. They passed quickly through the glittering lobby and into a long hallway. Through the hallway they went, and into the elevator, then up. Up, up, up, and with little sense of motion. On the fourteenth floor (there was no thirteenth floor), the elevator stopped, and the bellhop led him in short order to his room – a comfortable, single bed affair, with a fully stocked minibar and fridge.
He tipped the bellhop, and then, alone, he went to the window. He went to the window, and he looked out, across the square at the brightly lit Wolfram and Hart building. It seemed to fill the whole of his vision, and if he were prone to such outbursts, he might have sworn that he felt a nearly palpable sense of evil wafting off the place.
How things had changed.
He could remember a time, a very long time ago, when Wolfram and Hart had been the Order of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. He'd first encountered them a thousand years ago, in the company of a friend, seeking shelter from a storm...
FLASHBACK
The rain poured down in nearly blinding sheets, and neither Methos nor his companion could see more than a few feet in front of them. Methos grimaced. Maybe coming to England hadn't been such a good idea. ... Well, it wasn't as bad as that trip to Iceland with those blasted singing Irish monks. Have you ever heard a drunken Irish monk sing? It's not a pretty sound by any means.
Still, even if it wasn't as bad as THAT, he was still tired, cold, and hungry.
"I think I see a light ahead," his companion said.
Methos peered into the rain-haze. He could see it as well. It was very faint, but it was there. And where there was light, as a general rule, there was shelter. Heartened by his friend's pronouncement, he gathered his strength, and staggered on.
After several minutes clambering up a slick, muddy incline, he finally reached a large wooden door. They were before a monastery, Methos realized, though he didn't recognize the symbols carved around the door. He exchanged glances with his friend, and then seized the great, iron knocker, and pounded it against the door.
Three dull thuds, and then silence.
They waited.
They waited for nearly ten minutes. Methos was about to knock again, when he suddenly felt the presence of another Immortal. He tensed, but then, glancing up at the monastery doors, he told himself that it was Holy Ground, and he was in no danger.
A moment later, the door swung open with many a loud creak, and a hooded monk stood upon the threshold.
"Please, sir," said Methos's companion, "We are cold, tired, and hungry. Might we find lodging here to wait out the storm?"
The monk seemed to consider this for a moment, and then nodded. "Come in," he said, and stepped aside, allowing the two to enter. "I am Brother Marcus. And you are?"
"Connor," Methos said. It would be the last time he would ever use that particular pseudonym.
"Drogyn," said his friend. Drogyn cast off his wet cloak, and Brother Marcus hung it by the door for him.
Methos removed his own cloak and set it to hang next to Drogyn's.
The man who would come to be known in later years as Marcus Hamilton smiled warmly, though it never reached his eyes. "I will show you to the guest quarters."
They followed him. Followed him into the heart of the monastery of the Order of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart.
And outside the monastery, the rain came down in torrents.
END FLASHBACK
Methos shook his head. The memories of Immortals tended to gather like cobwebs, especially after a life as long as his. Although he and Drogyn had only stayed in that place long enough to wait out the storm, he did not like to think about what they had found there.
He stared across the square at the offices of Wolfram and Hart. He could sense something. It was very faint, but it was coming from that building. It was something like the presence of another Immortal, but darker. There was a sense of writhing, and a faint pressure, and a feeling like he was being stalked. Hunted by a predator.
He'd only felt this once before – in Joe's Blue's club, not that long ago, when that wave of mysterious blue light had passed over the world.
Staring out across the square, he realized that whatever had caused that feeling then was there, in that building.
Methos could not suppress a shudder.
------------------------
"We ready?" Angel asked.
Wesley nodded. "I think we're about as well prepared as one could hope to be before calling down the wrath of hell onto his own head."
He turned to Gunn. "Is the bomb in place?"
Gunn nodded. "Ready and waiting," he said. "If you time it right, it should kill every single one of them. If that place you saw in your vision really was the right location."
"And our little problem downstairs?" he asked.
"I was thinking an all-expense paid trip to Qortoth," Fred said, looking remarkably pleased.
"I thought portals didn't go to Qortoth?"
"Normally, they don't. But it's not terribly difficult to modify the trans-dimensional resonance of the portal enough to forge a link to a new plane."
"And by 'not terribly difficult," Lorne said, "She really means slightly less difficult than carrying the whole world on your shoulders while running a marathon through the slime-pits of Gra'lorth. And those are some unpleasant slime-pits, let me tell you."
The others looked at him blankly.
"It's REALLY REALLY HARD," he said.
The others nodded.
"The hotel?" Angel asked.
"I put a call in to the Furies," said Lorne. "The protective barrier should be online and ready to go the moment we arrive."
"Great," said Angel. "How are we for cash?"
Gunn grinned, and produced a briefcase. "Two hundred thousand dollars here, the rest in your Swiss bank accounts. We're good to go."
Angel nodded. "Good. Spike."
Spike perked up. "Right. All the preparations are made. And just for the record, I'm not wearing any amulets. No bracelets, broaches, beads, pendants, pins, or rings."
Angel nodded. "Good to know. But I don't think any of that will be necessary." He looked over at his people. "All right, people. Let's move out."
The Fang Gang turned as one, and left Angel's office behind for the last time.
------------------------
In a dark, forgotten chamber lying far beneath the surface of the earth, ancient Things of untold power gathered to take council together. The head of the Fell Brethren. The Archduke. Senator Brucker. Vail. And still others - each of them here, each of them responsible for the continuation of the Apocalypse.
As one, they chanted: "All is bound by the circle and its thorns. Invisible, inviolate, we, the seeds of the storm, at the center of the world's woe, now convene." And as they spoke, the shadows of the room grew darker, and a sense of menace grew around them.
"Angelus has proved unworthy of us," the Archduke Sebassis said, after a brief silence.
"Most unfortunate," said the leader of the Fell Brethren.
"For him," Vail said. "But that's not why you called this meeting, is it, Archduke?"
The Archduke gave Vail a faintly disgusted look. "No. It is not." The others gave the Archduke their undivided attention. He went on. "We're here to discuss the Illyria situation."
A noise like a sigh passed through those present at the mention of the Old One. The Archduke continued speaking. "Illyria abides. Its host is Immortal, yet it remains undiminished. It is only a matter of time before it resumes control of its body. The question, my friends, is what we intend to do about it."
"Well," said Angel, "I've got a suggestion."
The others turned to face the vampire, with varying expressions of shock and outrage on their faces. How dare he desecrate this sacred place with his unconsecrated presence! "Angelus!" Sebassis roared, rising to his feet.
"No, don't get up," Angel said. "I'll only be a moment."
Vail flung out his hand, and a fireball flew towards the ensouled vampire. It passed right through his form with nary a flicker, and then splashed violently against the far wall.
The members of the circle all stared in shock. "A projection?" Sebassis asked. "Angelus, your life is forfeit. You will die for this."
"Or," said Angel, "You could listen to my suggestion."
"That being?" Brucker asked.
"That you all die. Now." Angel produced a small switch from his pocket.
"You will pay for this outrage, Angelus," Sebassis sneered.
Angel's eyes narrowed. "The name is Angel," he said, and pressed the switch.
The meeting place of the Circle of the Black Thorn erupted in a massive, magically charged fireball. They never even had a chance. Those that weren't vaporised in the initial blast were killed when their sanctum collapsed over them. In an instant, every single member of the Circle was dead.
But the Senior Partners were not so blind as to have not seen who was responsible. In a wrath, they rose up and struck a blow against the mortal world. The contingency that they had prepared in the event of Angel's betrayal was activated. And in the depths of the Wolfram and Hart building, something dark drew its first breath in over a thousand years.
Sniffing the air experimentally, it rose up upon its haunches, and sent forth tendrils of thought. Yes, good. This place was old, and there had been much suffering here. It could sense its prey, somewhere above, and moving away rapidly. No matter. It had time yet before the compulsion would grow too powerful to resist. Time to raise its army.
It grinned, barring sharp, needle like teeth over desiccated, leathery flesh. Its dried, rubbery intestine-tendrils flailed about experimentally, snaking out from the creature's open gut. Yes, it was time.
And then it stepped into the trap that Wesley and Fred had set for it. The spell-triggers went off, and the very air was split asunder. A jagged crack ran through the fabric of conventional space-time, widening almost instantly into a full-blown blood red portal.
It barely had time to realize the nature of its predicament before it was gone.
The portal didn't stop there. The secondary enchantment Wesley had placed upon Fred's trans-planar portal generator kicked in, and the portal began to exert force upon the building around it. First barely even noticeable, it grew stronger by the moment.
A moment later, the Wolfram and Hart building was rocked by a dozen explosions, each one tied specifically to destroy a vital building support. There was a terrible roar, and the shrieking of tortured metal, and the whole building began to collapse. And with the open portal to Qortoth right beneath it, the building – all of it – was drawn in.
And the Senior Partners raged.
-------------------------------
Methos awoke to the sound of explosions, far too close by for comfort. He fell out of bed, and covered his head. It was only when the rumbling began that he realized that he himself was not in any danger. He rose to his feet and looked out the window of his room just in time to see the Wolfram and Hart building collapsing inwards on itself. Imploding.
His jaw dropped open in shock. Even he had not seen something like THIS before. No mere demolition job was this – the building was compressing itself down to a single point, and the terrified screams of those few people who were in the square rang loudly in the warm summer night.
The building continued its long death, compressing down, drawn ever down, and then it was gone, and a glittering blood red hole floated in the crater that was left in the building's place. After a moment, the blood red hole spiraled shut with a peal of thunder.
The thing he had sensed was near. It was outside the Hilton. It was moving. He dressed himself in a panic, and then rushed down to meet it. It was stupid. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. But even as he knew it was deadly, he was drawn to it. Almost compelled to seek it. He didn't understand, and he didn't like it one bit, but five minutes later, Methos was in his car, pursuing that peculiar sense of writhing.
----------------------------
The Senior Partners' response was both deadly and swift. Rites were performed. Portals were opened. But even they had no dominion over the Qortoth. Even they could not call back what had been sent there. But such that they could have done, was done. In a few hours, Angel and his group would be the most wanted fugitives of both the human and demon worlds.
Dark warriors emerged from the portals, and demons of every kind. They converged upon the Hyperion Hotel. A barrier shield had sprung up around the former site of Angel Investigations shortly after their departure from Wolfram and Hart. They would be trapped within. And once trapped, it would only be a matter of time.
Great magics were brought into play. Many favours were called in, and soon, some of the most powerful mystics this side of evil were at work dispelling the shield.
It took them most of the night.
Finally, when the shield collapsed, and the forces of darkness poured into the Hyperion, they found it utterly abandoned. There was no sign of their quarry.
The Senior Partners raged, and for the first time since the days of the Old Ones, they felt impotent.
----------------------------
Nestled somewhat uncomfortably in Angel's old 1967 Plymouth Belvedere GTX Convertible, the Fang Gang made good time out of Los Angeles. It was early morning, and Highway 5 was clear. They went north. They needed to get out of the Los Angeles area, and they needed to get out of it now. They were at the foot of the Grapevine when the news bulletin hit. Charles Gunn, Winifred Burkle, and Wesley Wyndham Pryce were wanted in connection with the terrorist attack on the Wolfram and Hart building in Los Angeles. They were considered armed and extremely dangerous. A basic description was given of each.
"Well, that ain't good," Fred said from where she sat in the back seat, looking somewhat panicked.
"Young black male?" Gunn asked incredulously. He looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror. "Fred, tell me, do I look like every other black man in the world to you?"
Fred rolled her eyes. "Charles," she said, sounding both exasperated and very fond of him.
"I'm just sayin'."
Spike spoke up. "I expect the whole demon world will be looking for us soon, if they aren't already. Probably send the Order of Taraka." He glanced at Angel. "Did I ever tell you about the time I sent them after Buffy?"
Angel glared. "Shut up, Spike."
"She looked amazingly hot fighting them off," Spike said.
"Shut up, Spike."
"You're just jealous that you never had the kind of connections to pull something like that off."
"Shut up, Spike."
Spike looked particularly smug.
And so it went, as the Fang Gang sped north, across the Grapevine, and up I5 through the central valley, through Sacramento, and beyond. By day, Wes, Gunn, Lorne, and Fred took turns driving while Angel and Spike hid beneath the blankets. By night, the two ensouled vampires traded off driving shifts.
Back in the Los Angeles area, both police and the feds were out in force as a manhunt on a massive scale began. But thanks to Wesley's cloaking spell, no sign of the Fang Gang was ever found.
And Methos? Methos made an effort to pursue that sense of writhing until he reached the base of the grapevine. It was then that his common sense reasserted itself. He shook his head, and took the nearest off-ramp.
It had been a mistake coming here. He would look around for a few days, but he suspected that whatever was going to happen, had happened.
He very much looked forward to returning to Seacouver, and leaving this blasted Southern California weather behind him.
END CHAPTER 4
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Author's notes:
Well, I finally managed to get everyone out of LA. Except for poor Methos, that is. And all it took was the complete destruction of the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart. I'm not yet sure whether or not I'm going to kill off any of the Fang Gang over this. But there will be consequences for their victory, and dire ones at that.
Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.