Chapter Four

Sunday, November 10, 2002 – the main lobby of the Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles; early evening:

Wesley saw Mr. Gunn whirl in the direction which Miss Chase was pointing, bringing his double-bladed ax to a ready position – and inadvertently hauling the woman around with him, as she clutched onto his jacket.

He spun around as well, his mouth falling open as he beheld –

– a tall, dark-haired man in his mid to late twenties standing from behind the sofa at that end of the lobby, propping himself up with one hand while the other clutched at his forehead.

"Would someone please shut up that horrible noise?" the dark-haired man demanded, in a rather thick Irish accent. "Fer the love o' God – she's worse than me father in the morning after a three-day bender, she is."

"Hey!" Miss Chase shouted, straightening indignantly. "Don't call me horrible, you-you fish murderer, you!"

"I thought you said there was a va – " Mr. Gunn began to say.

"It's him, moron!" Miss Chase immediately shouted, tugging at Mr. Gunn's jacket and jabbing her index finger violently at the Irishman. "Him! Angel! He's a vampire!"

"Him?" Miss Burkle and Mr. Gunn said in unison, looking from her to the obviously puzzled and incredulous dark-haired man.

"Him! Him, damn it!" Miss Chase yelled. "That's Angel. He's a vicious killer! He's been terrorizing us for months; killing Miss Calendar, murdering Willow's fish, threatening Xander, sleeping with Buffy... "

"Och. I don't be knowing what the wench is talkin' about," the Irishman said, scowling. "Me name is Liam. And I've never killed anyone; well, other than a few tall soldiers of Jameson's here and there – "

"See? He admits it!" Miss Chase semi-yelled.

"Ah, uh," Wesley said, feeling somewhat annoyed over the American woman's lack of knowledge. "Jameson's is a brand of Irish whiskey... "

"Ye got that right, ye Sassenach," Angel, or Liam, or whatever his name was, nodded. "Nothing fer me but the finest, that and Bushmills."

"Oh," Miss Chase said, briefly looking uncomfortable. "Right. I knew that." Scowling fiercely, she stamped her foot. "Still! I know what I'm talking about, damn it! He, he's probably the one that kidnapped and dragged us here, to... to torture, murder, and rape us or something. I'll bet that his minions are around somewhere as well, hiding – to pounce on us when we least expect it!"

"Hey! I've ne'er been a rapist in all me born days," the Irishman said, straightening indignantly. "The wenches 'ave always been happy to give themselves over fer the pleasure of it." Stalking around the back of the couch, he rounded the end table, and slowly approached the others. "It's not certain I am what yer on about, Miss, but ye should have a care spreading such vile slander about a gentleman like meself!"

"Eep!" Miss Chase said, shrinking back behind Mr. Gunn as Angel/Liam approached. Miss Burkle carefully backed away from everyone as well.

"Hey, now," Mr. Gunn said to the Irishman, stepping forward. "Just back off, already. The gal's afraid of you, and I don't know that she ain't right to be."

"Please," Wesley spoke up, stepping between Angel/Liam and Mr. Gunn. "Let's all just be calm. Sir, whoever you are, the young woman is merely a bit distraught."

"I'll not be caring if it's a fit of the vapors she's having," Angel/Liam replied. "Just so long as she stops screamin' like a fishwife at me."

"Fishwife?! Why, you-!" Miss Chase straightened up behind Mr. Gunn, now looking infuriated. She then demanded, "Gimme that stake, Head Cheese!"

"Now, please calm down Miss Chase, and allow me to deal with this," Wesley said, a bit pompously. Carefully, he approached the Irishman, his left hand in his pocket and his right hand held outstretched. "I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and you are?"

"Liam, as I said, ye British fop. Of Galway. And it's thinking you're all mad, I am."

"Ah. Liam of Galway. I take it you're definitely Irish then, my friend?"

"No, I'm a bloody Norseman instead. And I'm not yer friend, ye English pig," Liam said, sneering at the outstretched hand. "We never wanted you in Ireland. We don't want you here either, wherever here is."

"Well, I certainly can't blame you for not wanting to be friends, what with all that's happened between our respective countries," Wesley said, stepping forward. "But my real question is – "

Whipping his left hand out of his pocket, he shoved a wooden cross into the other man's face. "Are you indeed a vampire?"

Shocked and surprised, Liam jerked back and away from Wesley's outstretched hand and the cross in it. The man's eyes suddenly turned yellow, his face contorted, growing a ridged brow and his suddenly-outslung mouth grew large fangs as he snarled and growled.

"Aha!" Wesley cried out. Well, actually, it sounded a lot closer to, "Auughhh!"

Flinching back from the suddenly demonic-looking Liam, Wesley stumbled and accidentally triggered the sword mechanism in his right sleeve, causing the vampire to jump back in surprise.

"Holy shit! Barbie was right all along!" Mr. Gunn said in amazement. Bringing back his ax, the black man lunged forward, intending to rush past him as Wes attempted to maintain his balance.

"Oh, bogshite!" Yellow eyes widening, Liam (or whatever the vampire's name really was) jumped forward, ducking under the flailing blade, and then grabbing Wesley by the wrist of his sword arm and the belt. Lifting him easily, the vampire then threw him into the path of the onrushing Mr. Gunn.

Miss Chase screamed as both he and Mr. Gunn went down in a tangle of flailing limbs, foul curses, flashing sword, and glittering ax. And then, perhaps unsurprisingly, Miss Burkle joined in with a high-pitched shriek of her own.

Miss Chase screamed again as Liam shot a molten, yellow-eyed – and pained-looking – glare in her direction, and bared his fangs at her. Giving voice to another full-throated scream, the annoying young woman spun around and bolted for the front doors of the hotel, just as Mr. Gunn and himself began cursing and trying to untangle themselves.

Yanking the doors open, Miss Chase hurled herself out into the night, away from the abattoir Wesley was half-convinced that the hotel lobby would soon become.

The vampire gazed after the recently departed woman, his yellow eyes narrowed. "Healthy set o' lungs on that wench," he said musingly. "Saints preserve us. A voice like that could peel barnacles off of a schooner... "

Another scream from the other side of the lobby made the vampire wince. A moment thereafter, a lamp sailing close by Liam's head drew a bigger wince and a flinch. And then a hasty dodge as a heavy glass ashtray nearly beaned him in the forehead.

"Hey! Stop that, ye shrill-voiced harpy!" Jumping back, the vampire glared at Miss Burkle, who was engaged in frantically searching for something else to throw.

"Get off of me, English!" Mr. Gunn roared.

"I'm trying," Wesley said, apologetically. "Ah, please – do watch the arm. There's no, ah, telling what it'll – "

"Hey! Watch that sword!"

"I will if you'll be careful with that bloody – ow!"

Smirking, Liam grinned down at them. "Better than puppet theater, this is," the vampire said, shaking his head. "Ow!" The vampire stumbled back as a small vase shattered on his head. "Damnation – a hell of an arm it is, that woman's having... "

Finding a bonanza in a row of bric-a-brac along a side table, Miss Burkle began a steady rain of projectiles at the vampire while screaming, "Get out get out get out!" at the top of her lungs.

"I'm going- I'm- just- stop- quit that- damn it, enough, woman!" Liam shouted angrily, backing away.

"Ow! Friggin'... " Finally disentangling himself from Wesley, a rather murderous-looking Mr. Gunn rose to his feet a bit unsteadily, gripping his battle ax while clutching his, ah, fundament with his other hand. Unfortunately, it was Wesley himself whom the black man was glaring at murderously, instead of the vampire... Drawing back his foot, Mr. Gunn booted him a bit viciously in the stomach.

"Oof!"

"Told ya to watch that sword, Eugene," Mr. Gunn said, before raising his head. Tracking his gaze across the lobby, he fixed upon the alarmed-looking Liam –

Right about the time that a small porcelain horse shattered on the back of Mr. Gunn's head.

"OW! Damn it!" the black man cursed at Miss Burkle, turning to glare at her.

"Sorry!" the Texan woman apologized frantically. "My aim kinda sucks right now!"

Shooting Miss Burkle an equally murderous glance to the one he himself had gotten, Wesley saw Mr. Gunn's free hand release his backside to rub at the back of his head, wincing. Quickly fixing his gaze back on the vampire, the black man hefted the ax again. "All right, bloodsucker. Let's dance."

"Finnegan's freezing hell," Liam cursed, before turning around and bolting for the rear doors of the lobby.

Growling under his breath, Mr. Gunn started after him; but luckily, Wesley managed to lunge across the floor and grab him by the pants leg. "Wait!"

"Oof!" With a muttered curse, the limping and unbalanced Mr. Gunn immediately fell and sprawled out across the floor. "Damn it! I'm warning you, English... "

"No, seriously, wait!" Wesley gasped out, scrambling away from Mr. Gunn and clambering shakily to his feet.

"For what? That vamp to dust himself?"

"Hey, wait a minute!" Miss Burkle said, looking alarmed. "That Cordelia girl, she ran out the front door!"

"First smart thing anyone's done 'round here so far," Mr. Gunn replied, rolling onto his feet; only to sink back into a crouch, groaning. "Damned pain in the ass sword... "

Holding out his non-sword hand, Wesley helped Mr. Gunn to his feet after the other man grabbed it. Carefully folding his sword back up, Wesley clutched at Mr. Gunn's sleeve as the black man started off again. "Seriously, wait, please. There's something I need to explain."

"Man... this better be good," Mr. Gunn said, with his eyes narrowing.

"Angel – Miss Chase, she called that vampire Angel," Wesley said, looking around, and then stepping over to retrieve his cross from the nearby floor.

"Yeah? So?"

"Guys?" Miss Burkle said, only to be ignored.

"And he called himself 'Liam'," Wesley added, his own eyes narrowing.

"Again, so?" Mr. Gunn demanded.

"Liam of Galway," Wesley said, trying to remember all that he knew from his studies at the Academy. "Killed in 1753 by an old and vicious undead disciple of the Master named Darla. She turned him, and then when Liam rose, that vampire killed his entire family, and then nearly his entire village."

"Sounds like a typical vamp to me," Mr. Gunn said, nodding.

"Guys!" Miss Burkle said urgently, only to be ignored again.

"No! Not just any vampire, my friend," Wesley said, his voice now carrying a distinct note of excitement. "The deadliest and most vicious vampire in recent history! Liam of Galway renamed himself 'Angelus' – like Miss Chase hinted at, 'Angel' for short. And for a hundred and fifty years he tortured, slaughtered, and raped his way across Ireland, Britain, and the entire European continent. Do you know what this means?"

"Means you're not gonna let me go after that vamp and make him all dusty, 'cause you think I can't take him?" Mr. Gunn asked, his eyes narrowing even more.

"No!" Wesley shook his head, his eyes shining. "I mean, yes, under normal circumstances, I would advocate doing just that. Angelus is a lot more dangerous than your average master vampire – but from the way he was acting just now, it's obvious he has no idea who he is, or what's going on. Otherwise, we'd all be dead right now! Perhaps he's suffering from temporary amnesia, or is under a spell of some sort? Well, whatever the reason, it means that together, we have a chance to go down in the annals of Watcher's Council history as the men who finally put an end to the Scourge of Europe!"

"Well, we'd best be gettin' on with it, then," Mr. Gunn said, shrugging. "'Cause we ain't getting no younger, and that vamp ain't gettin' no closer to us."

"Ah, yes, quite," Wesley said, nodding. Flipping up his left wrist and extending his stake, he squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin. "Let's be off, then. The game is afoot!"

"Yeah, let's do this," Gunn nodded himself – striding, or rather limping, toward the exit that the vampire had vanished through. "And hey, now that I'm thinking on it – where the hell is my sister Alonna, anyway?"

"Guys!" Miss Burkle said pleadingly, gazing after the vanishing pair.

Still ignoring her, Wesley headed out the rear doors of the lobby, followed by the limping Mr. Gunn.

"Well, Feigenbaum's balls," Miss Burkle cursed, looking around uncertainly. "I guess at least one of us oughta go look for that Cordelia girl... "

Wesley stopped for a moment, as he heard the brunette slam the front door of the hotel shut behind her.

{ Americans, } Wesley thought disdainfully to himself, before turning around again and following after Mr. Gunn.


A few moments later – the same place; early evening:

"Sheesh. Thought those clowns would never get their act together and hit the road, already," Whistler said grouchily, stepping out of a patch of shadow at one side of the lobby.

Amy stepped out of the shadows as well. "Well, it may have taken a while – but it all worked out like you said it would, didn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess. Even with Skip's unwanted extra gone – that memory spell still went off the rails, just like I knew it would. Still, I wasn't expecting that annoying Irish accent... " Sighing, he looked around with a disgusted expression. "And before you say anything, fine – I'll admit it's not completely Greenie's fault. If it wasn't for the goddamned bosses not paying attention and policing their own – ow!"

Rolling his eyes, Whistler winced in brief pain. Whipping off his hat, he pinched the bridge of his nose before looking upward with a scowl. "Yeah, yeah. Now you guys are paying attention. Many pardons for my fucking French, yadda yadda yadda."

Amy smirked at him. "Just for the record? You probably wouldn't get that sort of response if you enrolled into a good anger management class, or whatever."

"Yeah, sure, kid. Whatever you say." Settling his hat back firmly on his head, the Messenger strolled over to the spell diagram, before he knelt down and began picking up all of the pieces of the shattered ceramic spell bottle. Placing all of them into a handkerchief he took out from the inside pocket of his jacket, he carefully folded them up and stood up again.

Shaking his head again, Whistler looked around. "OK. Now, where's... ah. There."

Wandering over to the counter, he headed around one end and stood there for a moment, looking down upon a passed-out Lorne. "Sorry, Greenie. Yer a nice guy and all, but we don't need you mucking up the works too early. So – "

He gave her the handkerchief. Unfolding it, Amy took out a shard of the bottle holding the spell mixture. After a moment, it began to glow with that characteristic amber light.

A moment later, the light shot away to strike Lorne in the forehead, enveloping his head momentarily before sinking into it and vanishing.

"Sweet dreams and enjoy the lack of memory, kiddo," Whistler said sympathetically. "Heh. I wonder what bein' a teenager in Pylea is like?"

"Myself, I don't even want to know," Amy replied, with a visible shudder. "That dimension sounds like an absolute nightmare to me, even lacking the usual fire and brimstone thing!"

She then put the shard back into the handkerchief, and then waved her hand over the mess. After another bright flash of amber light, the ceramic bottle was suddenly reassembled in her hand. "You want this?"

Nodding, Whistler took both items from her. Wrapping the now-whole bottle in the kerchief, he put the bundle into one of his jacket pockets. Then he said, "Oh! Almost forgot... "

Amy followed Whistler as he went over to the detective agency's answering machine. He fiddled with it for a while, effectively disabling it – but without any external indications that no one could now leave any phone messages for Angel Investigations. { Ought to just rip it out and take it with us, if you ask me. But I'm assuming Whistler has his reasons for doing it this way. }

"OK... one more stop to make, and then we'll have this show on the road properly," the Messenger muttered.

"What stop is that?" Amy wanted to know.

"You'll find out, kid. C'mon." Turning away from the counter, Whistler escorted her over to a patch of shadows by the staircase, and they both promptly vanished into the darkness.


Many hours earlier – outside Takkens Shoes, Stockton; early afternoon:

Xander basically had no idea why he'd stopped outside the shoe store, or why he subsequently went in and bought a pair of women's shoes. Ones that weren't even his size, had he been a cross-dresser; which he wasn't.

{ OK, why the hell did I just spend all this money on something I'm never even gonna use? } he asked himself in confusion, as he exited the shoe store with his purchase. { And why am I getting the creepiest feeling that it'd be a really bad idea to go back in there and ask for a refund? Damn it, this isn't the Hellmouth! Can't I escape its weirdness anywhere? }

He kept asking himself that question even as he got into his car and left the Stockton mall, and eventually made his way onto the Interstate-5 and headed south.


Many hours later – Hyperion Avenue, a number of blocks from the Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles; early evening:

"Locked doors, my tight young ass!"

Cordelia eventually slowed down to a walk after getting a few blocks away from the hotel, looking around in bewilderment. "OK... huh," she said, frowning slightly. "Where the hell am I?"

Looking around, Cordelia examined the street, her surroundings, and the various buildings and storefronts before turning to look back down the direction she came from. Nothing looked even remotely familiar to her, damn it. Sighing, she looked up over the nearby buildings to catch a glimpse of the skyline beyond.

After a few minutes, she decided that this could be L.A. – but it was no part of Los Angeles that she was actually familiar with. Maybe somewhere near downtown? One of the older areas?

It definitely wasn't Rodeo Drive. Or even Sunset Boulevard.

Turning back, she continued walking up the street to the end of the block, pausing to look at the street sign. Yep. Hyperion Avenue. Wherever that was.

"Damn it. I want my car," Cordelia muttered. "And my boyfriend. And my parents. And I want to be home!" Frowning, she glared at the street sign. "Somehow, this has got to be all Xander's fault. Or Buffy's. Jeez. Kidnapped, coming to in some freaky old hotel with Evil Angel and the Weirdo Brigade... I want to go home!"

Stamping her foot, she huffed impatiently and then set off up Hyperion Avenue, in the same direction she'd originally started running.

Cordelia passed by several newspaper machines, all of them empty or broken into and emptied, but she managed to glean from the names that this almost certainly was Los Angeles. That was something, at least.

"Now if I could just find a phone," Cordelia muttered. So far, all of the booths she'd passed had had their receiver cords cut or broken and the receivers stolen. { Which is just typical, } she thought to herself in annoyance.

Lost in thought, she barely registered walking past a small group of street toughs standing or leaning against the wall by the front of what looked like a decaying apartment building. At least, she didn't really register it until two of them wolf-whistled and made kissing noises at her.

"Brr." Reaching up to hold her blouse closed as much as possible, Cordelia folded the other arm across her stomach under her elbow, and kept going. Or she attempted to, anyway –

"Hey, chica. Where you goin' in such a hurry?" Two of them, a stringy-haired white guy with a blond goatee and a ratty-looking Hispanic kid, unfolded themselves from against the wall and stepped in her way.

"Excuse me," Cordelia said, glaring at them. She stepped to one side and started to move past them, only to stop abruptly when they shifted to block her path. "Hey!"

"Hey yourself, sweet-cheeks," the stringy-haired blond said, leering at her.

"Oh, please," Cordelia semi-snarled. "Like that's a come-on that's gonna work?" Glaring at the pair of punks, she added, "So. You gonna let me past?"

Stringy blond looked at ratty Hispanic. "I dunno. What you think? We gonna let her pass?"

Ratty smirked at him, before turning back to run his gaze up and down her frame. "Hey – she passes my inspection."

"Yeah, prime meat all right," Stringy said, snickering.

"Even if she is a bit old," Ratty nodded, grinning.

"Hey! I so am not!" Cordelia said, stung. She regretted it immediately, though, after seeing their expressions. Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes. "So, I'm gathering that's a no, huh?"

"Hey, we're easy," Stringy replied. "Whatcha gonna do to make it worth our while?"

"Huh?" Narrowing her eyes, Cordelia gave him an indelicate snort. "Yeah, right. Like that's ever gonna happen! I'm so far out of your league, you – "

"Chica thinks she's too good for the likes of us," Ratty cut her off, scowling.

"No! Well, yeah," Cordelia said, briefly grimacing at her lack of tact. "But – look. Just let me by, OK?" Taking a deep breath, she lowered her head and began to push between the pair of them.

Until Stringy reached his arm out across her chest and barred her way.

A moment later, his eyes bugged out and he doubled over, retching, as her knee came up in a precise arc that ended directly between his legs and below his belt buckle. Cordelia put her hand on top of his head and shoved, taking off running as Ratty yelled, "Hey!"


A while later – Morris Hill Cemetery, Boise, Idaho; night:

"Dirty, dirty girl," the man dressed in black said with a deep Southern twang, to the corpse of the female teenager laying dead at his feet.

To the casual observer, he would have appeared to be a man of God, what with the white clerical collar he was wearing – but then, very few priests stood over the body of a dead girl with a bloodstained knife in one hand and an expression of pure happiness on their face.

"Now, I know what you'd be thinking if'n you were still amongst the living. Crazy preacher man spoutin' off about the Whore of Babylon, or some such. But that ain't what I'm on about. I mean, what'd be the point?"

The evil fallen priest, whose name was Caleb, smiled added, "And don't get me wrong, there's no assigning blame here. You were born dirty, pure and simple. Born with that gaping maw down south that wants to open up, 'n suck out a man's marrow. Makes me puke to think too hard on it, truth be told. But I've gone and fixed that problem where you're concerned, haven't I?"

"Hello, Caleb."

Caleb started and looked next to him. There was a small, blond young woman who hadn't been there a few moments before. Without needing to hear anything else, Caleb knew who/what he was talking to.

"You ain't never gonna stop with the poppin' in and poppin' out hocus-pocus, are ya?" Caleb said, the smile on his face growing wider. "Not that I'm complaining, mind, just makin' an observation."

"Well, I know you enjoy it, almost as much as you enjoy pursuing my plans. Who was she?" the First Evil suddenly transformed into the image of the dead girl, staring up sightlessly.

"Her?" He nodded disdainfully at the corpse. "Just 'nother dirty girl. This one was a mite filthier than the others 'round here, actually. One of them Potential Slayers y'all want dead."

"Ah. Good. But there's no time for any more of that now – there's been a change in plans," the First said, beginning to circle around him.

"What change is this you're talkin' about?"

"That annoying Messenger from the Powers," the First said cryptically. "He's gone and recruited himself some help of the witchy variety –"

"Well, ain't that just like a woman?" Caleb sneered. "Always messin' up the situation. So, you want me to hunt her down 'n kill her?"

"No. You'd never find her – and you'd regret it, even if you did. Well, unless the odds were somehow overwhelmingly in your favor, which is extremely unlikely," the First shook her/its head. "The fact is – there's another situation that this Whistler asshole is engineering that needs to be dealt with first. Apparently, he's planning to contact someone that should have just faded away into the night, and I don't like that. That's why I want you to kill that so-called Champion for me, before setting your sights on the big picture again."

"Consider it done," Caleb promised, as he quickly wiped the knife on the dead girl's clothes to remove all traces of blood, and then he put the weapon away. "Heh, been hoping for a decent challenge lately." He subsequently began to walk towards his truck, which was parked not far away. "So, you'll just tell me where this fella is, and then I gut him like one o' the hogs back home?"

"No, it's not that simple. Unfortunately. Come on – I'll tell you all about it while you're on the road," the First replied.

"Thy will be done," Caleb said rapturously, as they arrived at the truck and he got in. He wasn't in the least surprised when the First Evil simply appeared beside him in the passenger seat, as he started the ignition and drove off. "And exactly who is it I'm s'posed to kill in your name, anyhow?"

"They call him the Groosalugg. Or they used to, anyway."

TBC…


A/N: Big thank you to everyone for all the reviews and feedback, it's greatly appreciated! Not to mention inspiration to keep going with the story, no doubt about it. Now, some people have asked when Xander and Cordelia are going to meet up - all we'll say is that it will happen, but not for a while. There's still quite a few things that need to happen in this fic before the big reunion, but we promise, it'll all be worth it in the end. And as always, don't be afraid to tell us what you think of the story so far! And, who do you think will win in a contest between Caleb and Groo?