Love's Intervention
Chapter Eighteen: Pain is Love

The Elder headquarters were in a state of panic. The neophyte Whitelighters, those who served little more purpose at the headquarters than to pour coffee (or liquor, if the situation provided) were looking amongst themselves with wide eyes. Meanwhile, the veterans ran about, collecting any sort of useful information they could find. The Elders themselves sat rather still in their chairs, perturbed looks on their faces. Cupid stood several feet from the gathering of Elders, the hood of his sweatshirt now so low over his forehead he couldn't see anything above eye level.

"This is all my fault," he mumbled to himself, though not loud enough for the Elders to hear. "I should have never accepted this damn position. If I kept to my humble little post, all would be nice and well. But no," he said, mocking himself, "I had to take it. I could barely handle Northern California as it was." He sighed. If only he had stuck with the safe, approved plan. If he did, then in a few months Phoebe would meet Leslie. Leslie was a good guy—a bit cocky, very charming, but overall sweet. "Isn't that the way she likes them?" he muttered. And if Leslie didn't work out—Cupid did have a few reservations about him—then there would always be others. Out of the entire globe, he would've found a guy she could be happy with.

But instead, he had used his still-not-quite-familiar powers and launched poor Phoebe into another world without completely thinking through the possible consequences. Though in all seriousness, Cupid thought, this was quite ridiculous. A stranded, elderly Elder, malicious demons—of all things that could have gone wrong, he never suspected that everything would go awry.

He lifted his head as he heard a Whitelighter addressing the Elders. He moved a bit closer to hear what the Whitelighter was saying.

"We have confirmed one demon who is now in the same world that our Elder is temporarily inhabiting. According to our scouts, the said demon is known as Iosld," the Whitelighter solemnly recited. Eaton stirred.

"Who is this Iosld, Eaton?" Yasien asked him. The Elders all leaned slightly forward, waiting for Eaton's explanation—he was, after all, the Elders' unofficial demon information source.

"Iosld," he said gravely, "is known as one of the most merciless killers to ever grace the Underworld. Many of the mortal twentieth century mass murderers were greatly influenced by him. He, however, is quite ambitionless for a demon, and has little to no desire to climb farther in the ranks than he already has. He is most fond of being able to rob the world of life with his own techniques." Eaton looked sharply at the Whitelighter. "He also has no qualms about working with other demons, which may mean that there are more demons with him."

"We do indeed believe that there are more demons with said Iosld," the Whitelighter answered, not changing her tone of voice. "The unofficial, speculative number is three."

"Yes, well," Eaton replied, "Make sure you check these demons first." He grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and scribbled some names. "Do make sure to check this demoness first—Raisa. Iosld and Raisa have kept their partnership rather quiet and do not regularly work together, but I do know that they work seamlessly when they do. Problems in Asia in the mid-twentieth century were almost their entire doing."

The Whitelighter accepted the piece of paper, nodded curtly, and then. As she did, Eaton heaved a sigh and propped his elbows on the table. "Eaton," Yasien said softly, "you know more than we all do. What does all this mean?"

"Well, you can guess," he said tiredly. "Iosld is incredibly bad luck already, but if Raisa is there with him—it doesn't matter that their demonic powers are inactive. They are quite resourceful by themselves; not only that, but they, unlike other demons, know the concept of teamwork. They are formidable," he finished.

"But is there anything we can do?" pressed another Elder.

"Other than the rather inadequate solutions that we've come up with so far, no, there is nothing that this new information provides for us," Eaton replied, an edge of sharpness in his voice.

Cupid nodded to himself. He seemed to have misjudged Eaton—he appeared to be an intelligent, effective man who seemed to view the Elders' shortcomings just as Cupid did. Still, Cupid knew that, at least in this particular case, the shortcomings were no one's fault—except perhaps his own. Cupid sighed again and turned away.

Suddenly, he felt a large ripple in the air. He glanced at the Elders, who looked as shocked as he felt—no one had the ability to directly infiltrate into the Elders' headquarters except the Elders themselves, and even they had to practice before they could do it with ease. Everyone stared at the ripple that was forming a foot or two beyond the head of the Elders' conference table.

But the ones that the Elders and Cupid were looking for did not come out of the ripple. Rather, the ripple diminished and ceased. They all looked at each other in wonder.

"Perhaps we can help," two voices suddenly sounded in eerie unison from behind Cupid.

Phoebe walked into the reception of the Jack McCarter & Kline building, determination in her step. She took the elevators to the thirty-fourth floor, then asked for information. She was referred to the largest suite on the left.

She nodded at the receptionist and headed toward the suite. She pushed open the opaque glass doors and found herself looking at a very familiar blonde seated at the secretary's desk.

Phoebe drew in a sharp breath, her mind temporarily abandoning her other thoughts.

Julie.

The demon who Phoebe had vanquished looked at her and smiled politely, a smile that didn't really seem to reach her eyes. "How may I help you?"

Phoebe stammered for a second, struck by her findings. A place where the dead are still alive and where the living have perished before their time, an unbidden voice whispered in her mind. Yet that was not the only thing—how did Julie even ever come into existence? There were no demons in this world, of that Phoebe was finally sure, yet here she was, in the flesh. Have all the demons turned into humans here? "I'm looking for Cole," Phoebe said finally. "Cole Turner."

Julie's smile became a few notches colder. "This is his office. Do you have an appointment?"

Human or not, Julie seemed to remain pretty much the same, minus the ability to throw fire. "No," Phoebe answered, her flustered manner gone.

"Well, then, I suggest you sit in the reception area and wait until he's available," Julie replied. She looked Phoebe up and down in the most unflattering manner, then turned her attention toward her desk.

Phoebe seethed. She did not come all the way across town to face the scorn of a demoness she had vanquished, even though Phoebe was not exactly proud that she did so by sending a column of Source-fire through her chest. "That's fine," Phoebe muttered to herself, exasperated yet a bit relieved that she would be able to put this off for a little while longer. "I'll go." She turned toward the exit.

"Phoebe?"

The Halliwell spun around to see Cole come of the room that was a little behind Julie's desk. "Hi," she answered back in a much smaller voice than she intended.

"Hi, baby," Cole replied, a smile on his face as he crossed the room and swept Phoebe up in a long, tender kiss. "Fancy seeing you here," he said, a twinkle in his eye, when they broke apart.

Phoebe smiled almost shyly as she gazed upon his face, reaching up to trace his jaw line with her finger. "Can we go somewhere more private?" she asked, aware of all the people in the reception staring at them.

"Sure," Cole responded. "We'll go to my office." He grinned. "Soundproof."

Phoebe chuckled a bit nervously as he led her toward the room behind Julie's desk. What she was planning to do was going to be hard. She was going to face what she had dodged for so long—it was time for the truth. So wrapped up in what she was going to say, Phoebe didn't even notice Julie shoot her death-looks from the secretary's desk.

"You want a drink?" Cole offered as he shut the door behind them.

"No, it's fine thanks," Phoebe replied distantly as she wandered toward Cole's paper littered desk. She put a hand on one of the papers, then touched the lamp, and the desk. Then she recognized what she was doing, without her realizing it; she was searching for a premonition, even though she couldn't receive one. She quickly withdrew her hand and clasped it in her other hand.

"Phoebe?" asked Cole, concern in his voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Phoebe replied almost too quickly. "Um, I have something to give you." She reached awkwardly into her large tote bag and took out a neatly folded jacket. "Here you go," she said, handing it back to him.

"This is mine," Cole said blankly. "Why are you returning it?"

"Uh, well, you just said it. Because it's yours," Phoebe answered, fighting to keep the tenseness from her tone of voice. There was a beat of silence between them. "Look," Phoebe suddenly said, desperate to get the situation over with. "I think it would be better if we stopped seeing each other."

Cole stared at her. "What?" he asked, as though unable to believe she would suggest such a thing.

"Cole…" Phoebe sighed and turned away, averting her eyes. "Believe me, we'll both be better off if we just end this now."

"Wait, what?" Cole asked again, his voice rising. "You can't be serious. You—I—" he seemed at a complete loss for words. "Why?"

"Because it'll be painless for the both of us if we don't carry this further, OK?" Phoebe said, almost snapped, as she zipped up her tote bag which was now considerably flattener and lighter. She straightened, compelling her hands to stay motionless at her sides.

"No, not OK," Cole snapped back, anger in his voice and eyes. "I can't believe this. I seriously cannot believe this. What was I for you, huh? A good screw? A fun lay? A toy that you wanted because your sister had it? What?"

"Of all things we have had, that was never it. Never," Phoebe said, fighting to keep her voice devoid of hurt. He had a right to be angry, she knew—so she let the Roger slight pass her.

"Then what? What about last light, the night before…" Cole sputtered and pointed toward the door. "Outside. Outside in the reception area. Our kiss. What was that?"

Phoebe stared at him, forcing back a tear that threatened to fall, taking in his face, his eyes, his stature, drinking in the appearance of the love of her life. "That was goodbye," she whispered, and turned to leave.

"I love you!"

Phoebe stopped just in front of the door, one hand ready to twist the doorknob open. She turned just the slightest from her position, her face still hidden from view. "Don't."

"I love you," Cole said deliberately.

"Don't." Her voice was tortured, her breath shallow.

"You can tell me what to do," Cole said. "But you can't tell me what to feel. And you—you can't pretend that you don't feel anything either."

Phoebe paused. "No, I can't," she said softly. Then suddenly, before Cole could stop her, she pulled open the door and ran. She did not notice people staring at her tear stained face; she knew nothing at all, could not think at all. She went straight back to her and Ames' apartment, stopping only at the library to photocopy the article of Paige's death to stick on her bedroom wall.