Spike looked around the brothel, oddly uncomfortable with his surroundings. While he wasn't a prude, far from it in fact, this was the first time he had ever been in a brothel, either human or demon. When he had been human the first go round, he had been too much of a momma's boy to ever consider such worldly acts. As a vampire, he had been too devoted, first to Dru, then to Buffy, to be interested in other companionship.
Now, after 150 years on Earth, he had finally stepped into a brothel. Led there, oddly enough, by the often child-like Kal and trailed by the excited Anya, who was the only one who was there to do business.
"Let me ask you this," Anya was saying to the mistress of the place. "How many potions do you sell a year? One? Two at most? I know how hard you trained to be considered competent enough to brew such delicate works of art. And your talent is going to waste. If you agree to my proposal, you'll increase sales and therefore your sense of self worth."
The proprietress, a witch named Anita, arched one delicate eyebrow at Anya. "Many of the potions I offer must be specially brewed."
"That's no problem. We'll just mark them as special order on the site. You must admit, Anita, that my proposal makes sense. Especially now that the Hellmouth is closed. I bet a lot of the demons used to pop down for a bit of sexual gratification. D'Hoffryn knows that Willy's didn't offer orgasms. Well, not any that anyone would accept, the slimy little human."
Anita regarded her for a moment before speaking again. "And what do you get out of this?"
"The happy knowledge that I am helping my fellow humans. And thirty percent."
"Ten."
"Twenty."
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen!" Anya scoffed. "You are taking the food right out of my future children's mouths."
Anita just raised an eyebrow at her guest and waited in silence.
"Alright," Anya conceded. "Fifteen percent. I'll just have to jack up the price on other wares."
The two women began to discuss a contract, planning when to meet and such. Feeling a bit useless in his role as guard for the day, Spike wandered away from the women and Kal, mildly curious about what sort of things went on in a demon brothel.
He was a bit surprised to find that most of the talent wandering the hallways were human, in appearance, at least. There was a vampire or two, one girl whom he thought was a f'gar demon. He couldn't help but wonder if the establishment catered to demons that enjoyed a bit of human comfort. Or if the more obvious demons were kept in a separate part of the building in deference to the human customers.
He silently wandered the halls, idly glancing in the open doorways. He ignored the woman he saw chained to the wall in one room, recognizing the look of pleasure on her face as a vampire fed from her arm. Another room resembled an Arabian harem, or at least the Hollywood version of one. A voluptuous woman grinned at him from her nest of pillows, the look one of pure invitation.
Eventually, he made his way back to the lobby of the mansion, having explored the hallways and seeing things that would possibly scar him from life. He had thought the chirago demon dancing was bad. Seeing group of them mating was even worse.
Anya, Anita, and Kal were waiting for him in the lobby, the two women still discussing business.
"I will contact my cousin in Vegas. She runs a very well respected house there. Heather also has a few girls who can brew some of the lesser potions. Mostly, they sell luck charms, but I think that's mainly because they are in Vegas."
"That would be great."
"I like your hair better this way," the witch said, turning to Kal. "You do not look like a shadow this way. Although, I must admit, I thought it was adorable when I thought you and your companion were together."
"We were together," Kal said, smiling at her. "We came to your business together and then we fought a tree demon together. Angel was the one to actually kill the demon, but he allowed me to take credit for the feat, thus increasing my valor in the eyes of my princess."
"Spike," Anya gushed, seeing him. "They have a Pièce De Temps here. Can you believe that?"
"'Room of Time?' What's that, pet?"
Anya gushed about the room, explaining that it was bespelled to create the maximum enjoyment of each moment. Time literally slowed down for those in the room.
"If I could sell that on my site, I'd be able to retire in a month."
"Sounds interestin,' Demon Girl." Truly intrigued by the idea, he turned to Anita and requested to see such a feat.
"I'm afraid that the room is in use right now," she confessed. "Their allotted time ends at noon, if you would like to come back then? I can give you the five cent tour. And perhaps," she said with a sensuous smile. "If it is not scheduled to be in use after that, I can give you a personal demonstration."
Spike smirked at her, curling his tongue over his teeth in the way that had always caused Buffy's heart rate to increase. Not that the slayer had ever admitted that, of course.
"I'll pass on the demonstration, pet. Would like the tour, though. Noon, you said?"
After she confirmed the time, Spike trailed after Anya and Kal, the two of them discussing their next stop. Anya had picked that day to begin her visits to the local demon community, taking the two men as both guides and protection from some of the less friendly of LA's underworld.
"There's a colony of k'maws a short distance away," Kal was telling their friend.
"K'maw demons have no marketable skills or products. I will visit them once the website is up and running, to offer them the chance to purchase items at an outrageous price. What I really need is a har'nesh clan. Do you know of any?"
"Down by the docks," Spike volunteered as he unlocked the doors to the car they had rented for the day. "I assume you want to make a deal for their sheddings?"
"Yes. Har'nesh scales are very valuable to those who practice the Wiccan arts. As such, there is a very high bounty on them. Which is stupid, since they shed their scales constantly, and for the most part have no use for the discarded flesh. Perhaps I can convince them that they'll be increasing their safety from bounty hunters by donating their sheddings for little or no monetary compensation."
Spike chuckled and turned the car to the dock district, glad that he had memorized the location of all the major demon populations.
The tunnels under the docks were typically dark and dank, a fact that the friends ignored. Spike knew that the har'nesh disliked the bright sun, which made sense given their cave evolution. He had been rather surprised to learn that a clan had settled in sunny California, having assumed that they would feel more at home in a place like Washington state or England, where it rained more often than the sun shone.
As he approached the chambers that housed the relatively peaceful demons, the sounds of battle reached his sensitive ears. He instantly stopped and grabbed the flashlights held by both Anya and Kal, forcing the beams to the floor of the tunnel.
"What is it?" Anya asked a little fearfully.
"There's a fight. Kal, you armed?"
Kal produced his favorite weapon, a broadsword that he had liberated from Angel's weapon's cabinet before he had left his princess. Spike would have been amused to know that the sword had been his grandsire's favorite weapon as well.
Anya nervously bit her lip, wishing that she had thought to bring a crossbow with her as Spike, brandishing a long knife, and Kal crept further into the tunnel. Logically, she knew that it was bad form to make business deals over weapons, but now, when she needed one, she regretted the lack.
She quietly followed the two warriors after turning off both her flashlight and the one Kal had thrust at her. Wishing they were the heavy duty kind instead of the cheap plastic ones, she slipped one into her purse and hefted the other. It was an inadequate weapon, but it made her feel better, never the less.
They were almost to the clan chambers, the sounds of battle loud enough that even Anya, with her all-too-human ears, could hear the sounds that had alerted Spike to danger. She waited patiently as Spike poked his head around the corner of the tunnel so that he could see what was happening. When he growled low in his throat and charged into the chamber without relaying what he saw, both she and Kal followed him unquestioningly into the fray.
What she saw once she rounded the corner was enough to turn her stomach. Dozens of large demons surrounded the much smaller har'nesh clan, methodically slashing their way through the ranks of adults that vainly tried to fight them off. The adolescent har'nesh, many with their ears still held shut with a layer of protective scales, whimpered in fright as their elders were slaughtered.
Spike and Kal had the element of surprise on their side, an advantage that they used for all it was worth, but it still was not enough. The attacking demons quickly broke into two groups, one of which continued their massacre while the second dealt with the intruders. Quickly seeing that her friends would, at the very least, be beaten into bloody pulps, Anya cast about for a weapon.
Lifting the long knife she found, she gave a battle cry worthy of Xena and joined the fight. As she dodged a meaty, spike-tipped fist, she couldn't help but wonder where both her brains and her sense of self preservation disappeared to. It was not so long ago that she had fled Sunnydale in order to avoid an apocalypse. In the intervening years, she had apparently lost all common sense. Hell, she had even died trying to protect the world from evil.
Seeing the strangers fighting their attackers gave the har'nesh demons a new sense of hope. Their failing spirits lifted and they rallied against the larger demons, slowly but surely cutting through their ranks.
After the eternity of five minutes, the last of the larger demons were dead or had fled, and the cavern descended into silence as the har'nesh began to triage their wounded. Anya was saddened by the sheer number that had been killed. The small clan of over a hundred and fifty had been decimated to less than twenty adults and about thirty juveniles.
Kal found her, quietly crying as she picked up a particularly small child. He couldn't have been much older than a week, lying next to what had surely once been his mother. She had used her own jacket to cover the remains of the mother's face and quietly rocked the child, attempting to make soothing noises through her tears.
"Were you hurt in the battle?" he asked, misunderstanding the source of her tears.
"Once, I wielded the power of the wish to rain destruction down on men. Now, the thought of this male child growing up without his mother is enough to turn me into a simpering idiot." She turned her gaze from the child to her friend. "If we had been just a few minutes later, if there had been a few more attackers, this fragile life would be gone. This tiny child, who hasn't hurt anyone, would be as cold as his mother."
Kal silently drew both her and the child into his arms, rocking them gently. His small talent of empathy was enough to pick up emotions that broke his heart.
"Do you want to go back to the Warehouse? Spike and I will be able to find alternative transportation later."
Her emotions developed a hard edge as she stiffened her spine and moved away from him. "No," she said, using one long, gore encrusted sleeve to wipe the tears from her face. "I need to help."
She took a shuddering breath before striding towards the make-shift nursery that had been set up in the corner opposite the temporary emergency room. One of the older children who had been drafted into looking after the younger ones, met her at the edge of the designated area and gave a soft cry at the sight of the infant.
"Ish-ta," she identified him as she cradled him to her own chest. "My first-sister's child." The girl nodded gratefully to Anya and carried the child away, humming one of their traditional songs.
They ended up spending most of the day in the cavern, tending to the wounded and the dead. Anya provided what sympathy she could, and didn't bring up money or business once.
Kate moaned as she used a swizzle stick to scratch her cast-encased ankle. The skin under the plaster felt as if ants were crawling over it, driving her already frayed emotions that much closer to unraveling.
She wasn't really sure why she was on such a roller coaster these days. If pressed, she would guess it was due to a combination of irritation over her broken leg, the stress of the recent changes in her life, and perhaps a touch of sexual frustration. While most days she refused to admit that she needed anything from the male members of the human species, the arrival of Anya and her inability to keep private thoughts private reminded the blonde detective of the things she was missing out on. Not the sex so much as the comfort of snuggling into strong arms after a long day. She missed the feel of listening to a heartbeat thumping under her cheek and the way that the hollow of a man's shoulder seemed to be made especially for a woman's head.
Unfortunately, there was a dearth of applicants for the position of boyfriend. The other detectives all looked at her as if she were one step away from the asylum, which was, perhaps, the truth. The fact that she had been re-instated during the whole Rain of Fire fiasco as an "expert" only added to her status as the station pariah.
Bar hopping had never been her forte. Hell, the rare times that she had gone to a bar looking for companionship was when she was working undercover. The only guy she had picked up was Angel, and God knew how that had turned out.
Her exclusive group of friends also lacked candidates for the position. Connor was obviously too young. She was anyone but Demi Moore dating Ashton Krutcher. As for Kal and Spike, part of her couldn't help but shudder at the idea of obtaining physical intimacy with either of them. While she had overcome her irrational hatred of all things demon, an accomplishment she mentally patted herself on the back for, the idea of being in a romantic relationship with anyone who was not a pure human was, in her eyes, just wrong. That left Greg as the only possibility.
Greg. Half the time she didn't know what to think of him. He made her laugh and want to slap him. He drove too fast and with no regard for his own safety and fought with a single-minded purpose, as if he were trying to prove something to someone.
To prove something to her, she thought sourly. The "her" being one Buffy Summers: slayer, good girl, and all around up-on-a-pedestal material.
With a sigh, she twirled her glass of scotch in her hands, watching the pattern the condensation made on the dark bar. Technically, she was still on duty. Not that she would get called in on a case. Now that the memory of the terror caused by the blackened sky and Jasmine's death had started to fade, her colleagues were starting to look at her the way they used to do right before her suspension. Earlier that day she had over heard two other detectives snickering over the idea of one of the cases she had come to recognize as underworld related. Memory fades, and with it caution.
She knew what would come next, of course. Whispers in the bullpen. Awkward silences when she walked into a room. Smirks when they thought she wasn't looking. It would all culminate in her once again being out of a job.
The thought scared her. No, scared wasn't the right word. Spike would have been able to come up with a long list of synonyms. She only needed one: terrified. Being a cop was the only thing she knew. If she wasn't a cop, she was nothing at all.
Would she break down, the same way she had done the last time? Would she find a bottle of pills to swallow, desperate to make the confusion go away? Or maybe this time she would use her personal revolver, the one she had tucked away under her bed. Terrified was a good word.
"Kate," a voice said from behind her, sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet bar and startling her out of her thoughts.
She glanced at the mirror that reflected bottles and the rest of the bar. It was an instinctual move, one she had honed in the years since she had learned about the unseen side of LA. She wasn't quite sure if she was relieved to see Greg reflected back at her or disappointed that it wasn't a random demon determined to end her misery.
"What are you doing here?" she asked as she turned to watch him settle in the stool beside her. She idly noticed that his dark hair was sprinkled with grey. A testament to the life they lived.
"I could ask you the same question."
She shrugged and tossed back the scotch and signaled for the barman to get her another. She could feel displeasure radiating off Greg in waves. She thought it was an interesting sensation.
"How many of those have you had?"
"Not enough," she stated calmly, swirling the ice cubes around the empty glass as she waited for her refill.
"How many is not enough?"
"At least one less than enough."
He frowned at her, not liking the flippant answer. "Why are you drinking?"
"Because I'm thirsty? Thanks," she said to the bartender, giving him a sensuous smile.
Greg put his hand on top of the new glass, preventing her from taking the drink she so desperately needed.
"It's not even noon, Kate. You shouldn't be drinking. Why aren't you at work?"
This elicited a bitter laugh from her. "Work?"
"Yes," he elaborated. "Remember, that place you go most days in an effort to make the world a better place?"
She snatched the glass away from him and downed the fiery liquid in one swallow. "Open your eyes, Scales. The world isn't a better place. Nothing we do matters."
"Everything we do matters," he stated emphatically, jerking the glass out of her hands. It was a futile gesture, considering it was already empty. "Every life we save is a life that we are meant to save. We protect the world every night."
Another bitter laugh poured forth from her lips as she slumped tiredly onto the bar. "There is no bigger meaning, you know? We're not going to get a better spot in Heaven because we killed a few demons or saved a few lives. Simple acts of kindness are not going to ensure our eternal reward. We're all going to die horrible, bloody deaths at the hands of the very creatures we try to protect people from."
"Do you really believe that?"
She was silent for a moment, considering the question through the slight fuzziness caused by the third glass of scotch. "Yes, we will die horrible deaths," she concluded, throwing a random bill on the bar to cover her tab.
At least this time around she wouldn't have to worry about money when the department handed her her walking papers. Her portion of Warehouse Security amounted to a nice little nest egg. So nice that if she invested wisely she would never have to work again. They always split the profits evenly, the group of them. Even though she was laid up, unable to patrol, Kate had received an equal share of the "taxes."
She could hear him following her as she clumped out of the bar, her leg finally healed enough that she could forgo the crutches. Breaking both of the bones in the lower part of the leg was painful, she had discovered. She was only glad that the damage had not required a full leg cast to heal, giving her a little more mobility. A little more freedom.
Greg walked beside her as she made her way back to the department and her car. No doubt he was marshalling his thoughts, getting ready to lecture to her about the evils of drinking and why her life was worth living.
"We will, you know," he said, surprising her both with his words and by grabbing the keys she had held loosely in her hand. He unlocked the passenger side of her little compact and indicated that she should get in.
"We will what?"
"Die horribly. What's that old saying? 'Live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse?' That won't be us."
She chuckled wryly as she slipped into the seat. "Well, the die young part maybe."
"Live fast, die young, leave a mangled corpse?" he asked as he settled into the driver's side and started the car. "Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?"
She was silent as he drove; only raising one brow when he passed the turnoff that would take them to the Warehouse and instead turned the vehicle towards the beach. This was better, perhaps. The day was chilly enough that only the die hard would be there, leaving most of the sand empty of sunbathers and paraphernalia.
They sat in the car once they had arrived, contemplating the waves for a moment, before he finally turned to her. "I'd say let's go for a walk, but I can't imagine that getting sand in that cast would be very pleasant."
She grimaced at the thought. "Why are we here?"
"You tell me. Why were you at the bar before noon?"
She gave him a wry smile. "I'm about to lose my job. Again."
"So?"
"I'm a cop, Greg! That's all I am!"
He considered her for a moment and slowly shook his head. "You have issues," he stated simply.
"So my shrink tells me," she returned, bitterly.
He shrugged, neither surprised nor particularly caring that his friend saw a psychologist. Truth be known, all of them probably should, since they were obviously loony to be living the life they did.
"What does your shrink tell you to do about your issues?"
"He doesn't. He just listens to me talk about them."
"Does it help?"
"Hasn't so far."
"Does anything?"
She thought about it for a moment before nodding. "Having friends. It gives me hope that maybe I'm more than just a cop with issues."
"You are, you know. More than a cop. You're a warrior, a champion. OK, with issues, but we all have them."
"How do you deal with them?"
"My issues? I usually beat up a vampire."
She giggled before stopping in shock over the fact that she actually giggled. "A good number of my issues come from the fact that there are vampires."
"See, there you go," he said with a smile. "What better way to deal with those issues than to beat the crap out of them?"
Connor danced around the partition and the support beam that held it in place, entering his corner of the Warehouse's main floor. They had erected the partitions shortly after he had moved in and the group had discovered how annoying it was to have a half-finished engineering assignment scattered around the massive space previously used as a common room and training room. When he confessed to his friends that the jumble of parts was normal, they had quickly conferred and came up with the solution to partition off the space underneath the apartments, giving each of them a pseudo-office and a series of storage rooms to be used as they each saw fit.
Connor, for his part, used his space as a workroom for both his engineering projects and the little side designs he created for the group. While he still had over two years of college left, he seemed to instinctively know how to create and build the complicated designs required for weapons.
Today he had decided to take a break from the project assigned by his summer semester professor, an hourglass that timed exactly five minutes. Instead, he had popped a CD in the stereo and turned it up until he could feel the vibrations through the floor. It was an activity he never would have gotten away with if any of the other occupants of the Warehouse had been there.
Satisfied with the noise level, he settled down at his workbench, bobbing his head in time to the beat. Before him was the tools used for making bullets, several vials of holy water, and bits of wood. While he, Spike, Greg, and Kal preferred, and were used to, fighting hand to hand, or sword to hand, as the case may be, Kate was trained to use a gun and instinctively reached for the weapon when faced with an opponent. Connor had no problem with such a reaction; in fact, it had come in handy with a demon or two. Not much would get up after a bullet ripped out the back of its head.
The problem was that bullets didn't affect their main foe, vampires. Nor did they affect several other types of demons, weres, or zombies. With that in mind, he had set out to design a better bullet, one that Kate could use to the most benefit.
The problem, he soon discovered, was making a bullet that was both deadly to vampires and strong enough to survive the force of being shot. To that end, both wooden bullets and glass-tipped ammo, his first experiments, were failures. Which meant back to the drawing board. At a loss for a solution, he browsed one of Kate's supply magazines, looking for anything that might jump out at him.
He had just spotted a picture for rat shot when he sensed someone near the front door. There was a change in the vibrations of the floor, indicating that whoever was there was hesitatingly walking into the building. That indicated to the young man that it was someone other than his friends.
He grabbed up the stake launcher he had been tinkering with the day before and casually held it in his hand as he stood and rounded the partition into the main room of the Warehouse. To a stranger the launcher would look innocuous, and if the stranger was unfriendly, it would prove deadly.
He studied the man invading his territory for a moment, head cocked slightly to the side. He was a little taller than Connor but with the same basic build and thinning hair liberally sprinkled with grey. He looked hesitant to enter the sanctuary of the building, glancing from side to side, unerringly finding each of the weapons displayed on the walls. Connor couldn't help but wonder what he would think if he knew of the unseen caches, such as the ax and sword lodged beneath the pommel horse.
"Dad," he said calmly as he switched off the stereo.
"Connor!" Harold Trent exclaimed, swirling to where the younger man was standing. Connor could hear his father's heart race from where he had startled the older man.
"What are you doing here?" he asked as he casually tossed the launcher back onto his work bench.
"What am I doing here, he asks. I haven't seen you since Christmas. You call to tell your mother and me that you're moving out of the dorms and taking summer classes but refuse our help with moving. You haven't called in a month. What am I doing here? I'm making sure you're OK."
Connor smiled sheepishly. He hadn't even realized it had been so long since he had talked to his family, the hectic pace of life in the Warehouse and school had made the time slip away like sands in the hourglass he was supposed to be working on.
"Sorry," he apologized. "I got a little busy."
Harold laughed and gave him a fond look. "Engineering projects?" he asked, knowing his son's penchant for losing himself in projects.
At Connor's nod he scanned the large room once again, a frown appearing on his face. "Connor, I know you said you got a job, but how can you afford this place?"
"I don't," he confessed truthfully. "I'm just one of six people living here. The building is owned by Warehouse Security and the rent is basically non-existent."
"That's the company you work for, right? What on earth do you do for a security company?"
Connor flashed him what he hoped was an innocent smile. "I check on a couple of the buildings they provide the security for. I make sure that all the doors are locked, no windows broken, that sort of thing."
His father frowned worriedly, causing him to quickly reassure the man that his "job" was perfectly safe.
"I only go with either the owner or an off duty cop, Dad. Basically I'm there to call 911 while Greg or Kate keep an eye on the building if something's wrong." He shrugged the niggle of guilt away as he told the fib. "Let me show you around," he offered.
His father agreed and Connor led him around the bottom floor, spending only a short time in his own workroom before proceeding on to show him Spike's library and Anya's "shop." He cheerfully explained that Spike, for all his unconventional name, worked as an independent researcher while Anya was working on an internet startup. Greg was labeled as the CEO of Warehouse Security with Spike and Kate being identified as major shareholders. Kal, he explained, was a friend of a friend of sorts and didn't really do anything except work for the company.
"Let me just warn you now," he told his father as he led him up the stairs to his apartment. "Just in case you meet them: Kal and Anya are not native English speakers. They have complete comprehension of the language, but every once in awhile they say something that makes little sense or sounds completely off the wall."
His father nodded thoughtfully and looked at his new surroundings. "And the weapons?"
Connor forced a laugh and shook his head. "Spike and Greg are closet geeks. They buy all those things from Museum Replicas. Spike actually has the entire collection of The Lord of the Rings swords on display in his apartment." Which was, in actuality, the truth. Spike adored the epic fantasy work and often reminisced about meeting Tolkien himself in an English pub while the writer was writing the notes that would later be published in The Silmarillion.
"They look so real," Harold said in wonder, buying the story.
"Well, in a sense, they are real," his son explained. "They're all sharpened and everything. The idea of using a sword in modern times is a bit ludicrious, though, wouldn't you say?"
The older man laughed in agreement as he explored Connor's suite. The apartment was spacious if a bit sparsely furnished. Connor had decorated it with a few movie posters and band pictures. The small number of weapons he actually had on display were explained away as gifts from Spike, who, he said with a laugh, had more money than he knew what to do with at times.
"He makes very good money as a researcher," he told his father. "That, plus the income from the Warehouse, is simply more than he needs."
"So he spends it on you?" his father asked, paternal feelings of worry coming to the fore once again.
"Nah. Not much of it, at least. I'm really not sure what he does with it all. I think he's set up a college fund for his girlfriend's little sister, but beyond that," Connor gave a shrug to indicate his lack of knowledge.
The two talked for over an hour, discussing Connor's school work and what his family had been doing for the last month. He was pleased to learn that his aunt was feeling better after a bout with mono and frowned when he learned that his sister had gone out on her first date.
Sudden music from downstairs, loud enough to rattle the upstairs windows, followed by a just as sudden silence and a bellow from below told him that Spike had returned. And wasn't happy over the fact that Connor had forgotten to turn the volume knob down on the stereo when he turned it off.
He winced and smiled apologetically to his dad as Spike launched a stream of expletives so foul he could have sworn that the air actually turned blue.
"That's Spike," he explained. "He's not usually that bad. Something must have happened while he was out. Stay here; I'll go see what's wrong."
Without waiting for a reply, he sprung from the couch and jogged out the door. Once he saw the look of pure fury on Spike's face and an obviously exhausted Anya leaning weakly on Kal, he forwent the stairs in order to jump gracefully from the balcony to the ground floor.
"What happened?' he questioned as he helped Kal settle Anya on the couch, taking a quick visual inventory of her to check for obvious wounds. Finding none, he ran his eyes over both the half-breed and the Champion for the Powers and discovered that they both sported several gashes and bruises that had not been there when they left on their networking foray.
"Buncha big, ugly mutha-"
"Uh, my dad's upstairs," he quickly interrupted, wincing at the volume his friend had been using. "He's already heard you use every curse in the English language, let's not give him any other reason to suggest I move out."
Spike scowled but lowered his voice. "We walked into a massacre. As you can see, we managed to walk out. Most of the buggers that were doin' the killin' didn'."
"They didn't deserve to," Anya said, her voice holding a note of vengefulness he had only heard when she had first talked about Halfrek and D'Hoffryn.
"They were killin' kids, Charver," Spike explained, not at all taken aback at the tone Anya used. In fact, his own voice held a note of satisfaction as he went on to describe the final fate of the demons that had attacked the har'nesh.
Harold Trent watched this all from the shadows of Connor's doorway. He had moved to follow his son, curious about what had happened to cause such an uproar. He had been just in time to see Connor launch himself off the railing. Shocked, to say the least, he had remained in the shadows to listen in on the conversation that was being held below him. He couldn't hear everything. What he did hear was enough to send a shiver of pure terror up his spine.
"Angel," Lilah called calmly as she strode into his office with her usual lack of announcing herself. It wasn't as if her boss was with anyone. She should know, since she was the one who protected his schedule with the tenacity of a bulldog.
Sure enough, Angel was alone in the spacious office that had once been hers. Alone and doing paper work, something that was quite surprising considering his hands-on attitude. Her esteemed boss would much rather be out fighting the forces of darkness, not going over expenditure reports.
He held up one hand, indicating that he wanted to finish whatever it was that he was working on. It took all her will power not to fidget while she waited. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness. Years of having to appear strong in order to survive the "Lawyer Eat Lawyer" world, sometimes literally, of Wolfram and Hart did not disappear just because their mission statement had changed.
Angel finally looked up at her and she unconsciously stiffened her spine. She was so not looking forward to this.
"Mr. Harold Trent is in the lobby, demanding to speak to you. Trent clerked for us when he was in law school and feels that we have violated our contract with him."
"Why bring this to me, Lilah?" Angel asked. "Isn't this the sort of thing you usually deal with?"
She couldn't prevent a slight twitch as she held out the relevant folders. "I thought that you would want to deal with this personally."
She watched as he skimmed the first folder, which contained the nature of Trent's complaint. She knew the contents of all the folders by heart.
The second folder was Trent's original contract. She had to admit that even as an intern he had been a brilliant strategist to insist on the clauses contained in the document. She wished she had been half as smart when she first signed on, but desperation over her mother's failing health had made her stupid.
Following the contract was a record of Trent's life, both personal and professional. It was standard practice for Wolfram and Hart to keep such records on each of their employees. Even those that had worked here when the LA branch was originally opened over two hundred years ago still had a folder stashed away in records. One never knew when a past misdeed would come back to haunt them.
The last folder, dead black instead of the usual manila, tied the other three together. It was the only copy of that particular file, bespelled so that only she and Angel could read it without suffering a horrible death. It contained an explanation of why the Trent family had been chosen for that particular project, a rundown of several possible scenarios that could occur if the truth ever came to light, and the justification of how they bypassed Trent's original contract.
Angel's face was set in stone when he finished the last folder. Lilah thought she knew her boss well enough to know what would come next, but waited until he gave the word anyway.
"Send him in," he stated, his voice firm.
Within minutes she had retrieved Mr. Trent from the lobby and escorted him into the inner sanctum. This time she didn't wait for instructions. She hurried out of the office and back to her desk as fast as her sensible heels could carry her.
"Mr. Trent," Angel greeted him, standing politely. "My name is Angel; I'm the new head of the LA branch of Wolfram and Hart."
They exchanged a brief handshake, something he could sense Trent was not happy about.
"Please, sit down. I understand that you believe we have broken our contract with you?" he continued once the man had settled into one of the plush chairs.
"Yes. My contract specifically stated that the firm would in no way physically or spiritually alter my children and would prevent anyone else from performing such acts. I've just come back from seeing my son, Connor. I saw him perform inhuman feats. You broke the contract."
Angel kept his face impassive throughout the short tirade. Once Trent had wound down, he regarded the man silently for a moment.
"Mr. Trent, do you love your son?"
"Of course I do."
"Despite this new evidence you have that he has been altered in some way?"
"He is still my son."
Angel sighed and looked back down at Trent's contract. The paper in front of him had one phrase heavily highlighted. The phrase that the man, the father, before him had been so careful to put it to protect his family was also the phrase that had allowed them to place Connor with his family.
"Then, sir, I suggest that you drop the matter. You son is healthy, happy, and has done nothing to change your love for him. Leave it alone."
The man glared at him, refusing to budge mentally or physically.
Angel closed his eyes briefly and cursed the circumstances that led to this confrontation and the partial truth he was going to have to feed the man who had been chosen for his honesty and integrity.
"Do you remember the clause in your contract?" he finally asked.
"Of course. I wrote it. It states that nothing will be done to physically of spiritually alter my family."
"Close," he responded, sliding the contract across the desk. "Please read the clause."
"'7.5: Wolfram and Hart and all subsidiaries and employees thereof do promise to prevent any and all physical and spiritual tampering of all blood relatives of the undersigned.' And you did something to Connor, thereby breaking the contract."
"Notice that 'blood relatives' is highlighted in the clause, Mr. Trent. We did nothing to break the contract."
Trent was suddenly still, realizing what Angel had all but said. "Blood relatives," he muttered.
"Does it matter?' the vampire asked, swearing silently that, contract or no contract, if the man rejected Connor he would rip him apart.
"No," he finally answered after a long minute. "He is still my son."
Angel nodded, pleased with the answer.
"Wh- What did you do to him?"
"I'm afraid that I can't tell you that, Mr. Trent. I assure you that your son was not harmed, though. In fact, according to my information, he is quite happy and is doing well in his studies."
Trent nodded, a light coming on in his eyes. "The company he works for, the place he lives. Warehouse Security. It's a subsidiary company, isn't it?"
"You're wondering if we're interfering with his life. We are not. Warehouse Security has no ties to Wolfram and Hart. In fact, sir, the firm is under strict orders to stay away from the boy. His…transformation was the only time the firm has ever come in contact with him. Henceforth, all contact must be initiated by him."
"Why was…"
"He altered? It was by the request of his biological father. A man who wishes to remain anonymous. I think that we can both agree that it is better that way."
The man in front of him nodded. From the looks of things, he was a bit numb. Not that Angel could blame him. It wasn't every day that you were basically told that your wife had cheated on you years before and that your son was not, in fact, yours.
Angel ignored the flash of sympathy he felt for the man and said in a business-like way, "Is there anything else you wanted, Mr. Trent? If not, Lilah will show you out."
Trent nodded once again and woodenly rose from his seat and left the office. Angel could hear Lilah talking to him in her usual brusque manner as she led him away. No doubt she would be grilling him on what he had told the man in no time.