Blind and Dangerous - Act 1
She knelt on the cool grass with unexpected tears in her eyes. She had avoided coming to this place for a long time. Since the interment. With a weak arm, she reached out and let her fingers run down the polished surface. The lovely polished granite was still warm from sitting in the sun all day. This was a beautiful spot.
Niki's fingers traced out the name carved in the headstone. Richard Jeffery Addison. He was down there, six feet beneath the cool grass which had sprung up around the headstone. He really was dead. The British Consul had decided not to fly his body back to England for burial, since Addison had been in disfavor with the Council at the time of his death. So here he lay, in a simple coffin, with a simple headstone, on a little hill with the girl he had destroyed kneeling and crying in the dying rays of the sun.
As the last of the light had been eaten up by shadow, Niki swallowed her tears and turned her head slightly, noticing the fresh dirt above the grave to her left. As if on cue, a hand thrust out of the ground.
Niki grated her teeth and turned back to Addison's name, tears still in her eyes. "I hate you."
She stood and pulled her jacket on, gripping the stake tightly. It had been a while, as a matter of fact, since she had done some honest slaying. But it was like riding a lawyer; the moves never changed and the outcome was always a little disappointing.
She waited patiently as the young vamp pulled herself from the earth, gasping for breath and glaring through yellow, wolfish eyes at the fresh evening which promised blood. Niki stared back, readying herself for the timeless duel, the simplest expression of the unending struggle between evil and whatever Niki herself was: Whatever side Niki fought for always won the battle, but the war never ended.
The vamp lunged, tackling Niki around the middle. The two went tumbling to the ground, the Slayer taking several punches to the face before she kicked the vamp over her head then jumped to her feet. Tensed and ready in an instant, Niki lunged this time, kicking high and striking the vampire in the face, sending her staggering backward.
Niki grinned, charging forward when she felt the vampire was ready again, twisting to the side at the last minute and avoiding the vamp's bear hug, ending up behind to thrust the stake hard into the vamp's back.
With a scream and the hiss of ash, the vamp collapsed to cool grass below. Niki took a breath and nodded with satisfaction, her inner turmoil momentarily forgotten. The Slayer slid the stake back into her pocket and tugged at the collar of her jacket, getting some air under it on this warm evening. Then an unusually cool breeze sent her hair blowing across her face. She frowned and tightened her jacket around her.
A blazing blue light soon exploded out of nothing to her right and the ice cold wind intensified, seeming to come from the light. In a heartbeat, the light and the wind were gone and Niki was left standing with a confused frown.
"Who the hell are you?"
The figure stepped out of the blurry after image which plagued Niki's vision. Finally her vision cleared and she brushed her blond hair from her face. The figure was short for a demon, certainly not fear-inspiring. Niki couldn't really tell whether it was male or female, it was so emaciated.
It wore a burlap robe which was tied at the waist with a twine rope. The robe had no sleeves and the figure's skinny arms moved about as if they weighed nothing. From what Niki could see of the legs, they seemed as skinny as she could imagine was possible.
The figure's head was so starved it was nearly skeletal, every feature of its jaw outlined beneath paper thin skin. Its eyes were sunk back into its head, but they were alive and active, looking around with a crystal clear intensity. Upon the bald head was a simple burlap skullcap which covered the top of its head and hung down the back of its neck.
In its left hand it carried a small tree branch, a few dead leaves still clinging to one end. The figure made a slow step forward and Niki tensed. If this thing was as fragile as it looked, a fight like this would be very short. In the blink of an eye, the figure was standing inches from the Slayer, its sunken eyes staring deep into her with a haunting intensity.
"Give it to me," the skeletal figure ordered in a thin voice which sounded as if it weren't used to speaking. Its breath smelled like a dozen dead bodies — something Niki had smelled in her lifetime.
The Slayer took a step back. "Give you what?"
The figure shook the stick between them, its leaves rustling. "Time will tell," it breathed, sucking in a deep, rattling breath. With a disgusted look, Niki watched as flesh filled out the skeletal form, muscle grew beneath the skin and the eyes rose from their deep pits. Soon the figure was anything but fragile, bulked with muscles and the stature of a heavyweight wrestler.
Niki shifted her weight, ready to fight. This was surely some kind of demon the Council had summoned. That thought being all the incentive she needed, she scissor kicked it in the jaw, her foot feeling like it was hitting stone. The figure lifted the branch, which seemed to have found new life, its leaves green and thick. With a shake and a rustling of leaves, Niki was thrown back into a large tombstone. She slid to the ground with a groan.
Some kind of wizard, she thought, getting to her feet and charging. The stick was the key, though. She twisted around it as the figure raised it against her and snatched it from muscular hands. The instant her hand touched it, however, an incredible pain overtook her and she dropped it to the ground, screaming in pain. She lay on the ground, fighting her body's commands to pass out. With a deep breath she jumped to her feet again, her arm still feeling like it was on fire. The figure was gone.
Niki looked down to where she had dropped the stick. It too was gone. Where it had been was a patch of dead grass, barren earth outlining where the stick had lain. She swallowed. That was some demon. She shook the receding pain away from her arm, suddenly overcome with dizziness.
She collapsed to her knees, doubling over in nausea. A blur of images and sounds charged through her brain for a split second, leaving her on the grass, panting for breath. A moment later, another blur and another shout of pain.
After a long minute of gasping for breath and praying the pain would end, Niki managed to get back up onto her knees. She slowly looked over to the polished granite surface marking the grave of her late Watcher, drawing in a deep breath.
"That all you got?"
--
Logan glanced up from the mess of papers on the coffee table. Rachel was sitting in the easy chair, silently reading a novel. The silence between them was like a taut piano string. If it broke, it was going to hurt someone.
Logan swallowed and carefully turned a page over, trying not make any noise. It was ridiculous, but Logan knew Rachel was watching him. Not now. Not with her eyes. But all the time he was out of the house... he was sure someone was following him.
Logan had managed to convince the court to drop the jail time associated with vehicular manslaughter, but the crime was still on his record and it was going to take some time to pay off the fine. The Watcher Logan had run over obviously didn't have anyone to stick up for him, which surprised Logan. Some men, likely from the Council, had come and collected his belongings and let the city cremate and inter him.
The fact that Hanna was a Potential Slayer had taken him by surprise and he didn't feel he had done anything a good father wouldn't do to protect his daughter by killing her would-be Watcher. He had also learned something valuable about Michael, namely that the so-called angel didn't actually kill people. He hung around death, that was for sure, and he seemed able to predict it or foresee it — Logan wasn't at all clear on that point, but he was getting to be as cryptic and annoyingly unhelpful as Whistler, so Logan had abandoned his attempts to get more out of him.
He slowly turned the page and scanned the words printed there. Rachel had figured out that Logan had run the Brit down because he had thought he was being followed and had since stopped acting outwardly angry at him. She knew, he supposed, that he would do the same with his car to anyone else he suspected was encroaching on his privacy. Logan had, in fact, not seen anyone tailing him since that night. Turn the page. Suddenly, the piano string of tension snapped with the sound of the doorbell.
Logan leapt to his feet and Rachel snapped her book closed.
"I'll get it," he said louder than necessary. Walking quickly to the door, he opened it to an unfamiliar face.
The young man was a little shorter than Logan and had short, spiked, red hair. He didn't recognize the band on his shirt, and didn't at all like the way he was staring at Logan. The young man swallowed.
"Uh... hey. I obviously have the right house... There's — there's someone I think you should meet. D'you want to come for a walk with me?"
Logan frowned. "Are you selling something?"
The young man shook his head, his gaze locked on Logan's face, slowly dropping to his button up shirt. "I think you're really gonna want to meet him."
Logan glanced back to the deep freezer of tension behind him. He could feel Rachel's eyes on him. Then he shrugged and grabbed his khaki jacket, closing the door behind him. He was grateful to get out of the house and even if this kid wanted to kill him, at least he would get some exercise. "Just so you know," Logan said cheerfully, "I ran over a guy last month just for thinking about my daughter."
The young man swallowed. "I believe you. It's this way." He led Logan down the street a little, under the cones of light thrown by the streetlights. They passed a tall hedge and out of the surrounding darkness, Logan could feel something. Something terrifying and familiar at the same time. Unnaturally familiar.
A new man stepped from the shadows and looked Logan up and down with a slow grin. He slowly took a deep breath, his chest rising under his white silk shirt. Logan has seen a shirt like that before, under a blue silk tie and worn by an angel who insisted he was not associated with death.
The younger, red-haired man cocked his head, looking intently from one of their faces to the other. He made a sound of amazement.
Logan frowned and squinted, looking through the shadow covering the man's face. As the man in the silk shirt stepped forward a little into the light, Logan's eyes nearly jumped out of his head. He opened his mouth to swear, but his suddenly dry mouth couldn't find the words.
"Oz, this is Logan," the man in the silk shirt facilitated the introductions, "Logan, this is my friend Oz. And of course, we've met before." The man cracked a smile. "Every day in the bathroom mirror."
Logan looked in utter disbelief as his own face stared back at him from beneath a mess of long, shaggy blond hair. It's a trick, his mind insisted. A spell or something. But why?
"Who the hell are you?" Logan demanded, taking a careful step back and trying to summon the electricity in his hands.
The man in the silk shirt smiled even more. "My name is Loki. I'm you... about twenty years from now."
Logan flexed his fists. As powerful as he knew he was, it was always something that came at times of emotional stress. It wasn't something he could really conjure on command. He swallowed. Stall. Say something. Pretend you believe him.
"I look good," Logan noted, finding not a single grey in the mop of blond hair. "Though I could use a haircut."
Oz smiled a little but said nothing. Loki took the comment with grace. "Twenty years might change your mind. I know it's changed mine."
"What... what am I doing here... twenty years from now?" Logan looked down at his hands, not even a flicker from the power that hid somewhere within him. He snapped his fingers, trying to get a spark. Nothing.
"I'm here because I need your help. My help – whatever." Loki kept his wry smile and sighed. "We have to stop a demon called the Timekeeper. It wants to kill someone called Wilson."
Logan looked quickly from Oz to Loki. "What... what do you need my help for?"
Loki shrugged a little. "Two me's are better than one. This is the point in time, I know, where I am at my strongest. A little out of control, I'll be the first to admit, but strong nonetheless."
Logan blinked. "Uh... thanks. I think." He swallowed again, then pointed to the young red haired man. "And who's he again?"
Loki looked to the young man with surprise, as if he hadn't really thought about it. "That's Oz."
Logan's brow creased a little. "Is... is that like a joke?" He pointed to each in turn, "The Wizard and Oz?"
Loki laughed out loud but Oz frowned. Loki patted the young man on the shoulder. "Ha! I'd never thought of it that way... See? I'm clever in any decade."
Logan shook his head once, his frown becoming one of distrust. "No, I'm sorry; you're going to have to give me a little proof. You could be any one of a dozen demons that wants to use my power for its own purp—"
"I sang Hanna to sleep again after I made her break up with her boyfriend." Loki stood with his arms crossed and his eyes challenging Logan to call him a liar. "I was a complete ass for cheating on my wife with a skanky Slayer... at least, that's what I told her. The truth is—"
"Okay, I believe you," Logan held up his hands for the other man to stop. "But this... this is kinda weird. Like... does you being here change the timeline or something?"
Oz nodded. "Yeah... He tried to explain it to me... it took three aspirin to get rid of that headache."
Loki smiled. "I'm not changing the timeline... see, I remember all this happening. I remember standing where you are and hearing me say these things. But try explaining that to the Timekeeper."
Logan shook his head to clear the confusion. "Who's the Timekeeper again?"
Loki sighed, the smile disappearing. "The Timekeeper's the demon who's going to try to kill us all."
--
Blind and Dangerous - Act 2
Niki walked from the cemetery with a vicious headache. Some of the flashes, though, were beginning to resolve themselves in her memory. They were indeed like things she remembered. Memories of doing things. Things she could swear she had never done. But they were her memories... She shook her head, unable to reconcile the flashes with any kind of logic. All she knew for sure was that if the Council was summoning demons like that to kill her... she might be in trouble.
She stepped off the curb and began to cross the dark street when another wave of nausea overcame her. Unable to help it, she collapsed onto her knees in the middle of the street, clutching her stomach.
The image was clearer this time. She remembered being in a house. It was sunset. There were screams. She remembered battling a great, dark demon. It skin was black and leathery, it had two tall horns on its head like a gazelle.
Niki blinked, knowing she had to get up off the street but she was still seeing the memory, the flashes punctuated by the sound of the demon shaking its stick. She closed her eyes and willed the vision to leave her. When she opened them she was still fighting the horned demon, punching it, kicking it. She grabbed it by the throat and brought it to the ground—
With an urgent honking, the taxi driver saw her at the last minute and swerved out of the way. The screeching of tires pulled her from the vision and she lifted herself to her feet, staggering to the far side of the street, only to collapse back to her knees as the vision took hold again.
Now she was losing against the horned creature – it had her arm pinned behind her back and was snarling fiercely. She struggled against it, but its leathery hands slid up her shoulder to her neck. With an iron grip, it took hold of her by the throat, closing its fist with a wet crunch.
Niki knelt on the sidewalk, clutching her throat, gasping for breath as if the demon was there with her now, choking the life out of her. She fell back onto the concrete, staring up as if the demon were staring down at her.
It leered as it reached down to take its prize from its victim. Niki, with her last dying gasps, could feel its fingers spreading across her chest. It leaned down close to her and opened its mouth to inhale of her.
Niki sat bolt upright on the dark sidewalk, her eyes wide, her vision clear. It was a memory. Her last memory. She shook her head to rid herself of the feeling of the hand on her chest. She gently massaged her ribs where she had felt the force of the creature's blows.
"Are you okay, Miss?" A hand was placed on her shoulder and a young man squatted down next to her in concern. "Do you need to go to a hospital?"
Niki blinked rapidly, quickly standing up and dusting herself off. "Uh... no. Thanks, I just– I'll be fine." Without even a glance at the man she turned and bolted down the dark street, running as fast as her legs would carry her.
The man who had stopped to help her watched her go, his face impassive as she outran the city traffic to the next intersection, disappearing around the corner. He stared after her for several seconds, slowly wiping the dust from his hands and reaching for his belt.
He lifted the small radio from its clip and brought it to his lips. "I've made contact: She's heading North."
--
Logan stood, very skeptically, with his arms crossed in the glow of the streetlight. "This may be a stupid question, so bear with me, but why would a demon... the Timekeeper?... yeah, why would it chase you all over the history book just to kill you? Couldn't it just pop back to before you – before we were born and, say, sell dad a condom?"
Loki rolled his eyes. "It can't disrupt the timeline. In fact, its job is to protect the timeline from disruption."
Logan slowly nodded, beginning to understand. "Oooh... I get it now. It's trying to kill you because you're here."
Loki nodded. "Now you're getting it. Though, technically, it doesn't really need to kill us – just Wilson."
Logan shook his head — "Who's Wilson?"
Loki opened his mouth to answer when Oz grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back into the shadows of the hedge. A heartbeat later, Rachel pushed the front door open and stepped out onto the lawn.
"Logan, who are you talking to?" She called, her arms crossed and her expression grim.
Logan scowled. "No one, honey, go inside."
She scoffed and dismissed him with a disdainful wave of her hand, trudging back into the house. "Fine, but I'm locking the door."
Logan's jaw tightened and he swallowed a retort. Looking back to the shadows, Loki and Oz were gone.
--
The next morning found Niki wandering the streets of Manhattan, desperately searching for something — anything which could make the visions stop. She remembered the Nail Biter was reopening and made her way to 37th Avenue East.
She staggered down the refinished steps and burst through the door into her old bar of choice. It was practically deserted. The place was finished, mostly, but there were very few patrons compared to what Niki remembered. This fact didn't hold her attention very long, however, as the feeling which preceded every wave of nausea began in her gut.
She rushed to the bar and slammed her fist down on the glass surface. "Gimme some Stuff," she commanded, glaring into the unfamiliar demon face of the bartender. He answered her glare with an uncertain frown, then slowly drew the vial of white powder from the counter behind him, setting it before the Slayer. He reached for a bottle of whiskey and a glass, but she waved him off, uncapping the vial and dumping a good triple dose of the narcotic-toxin into her mouth. She grimaced as she swallowed the chalky substance, then in under a minute passed out on the floor.
The vison which consumed her consciousness, as her body lay limp on the floor, was different than the one from which she had tried to escape with the white powder. There was no horned demon at sunset. No screams and death. Just a dark warehouse. Just two backlit figures. Just a feeling.
Her blood slowing in her veins as the chemical coursed through her, Niki was unable to fight off the vision this time. It was as real to her as any of her inherent Slayer dreams. She stood now before the two silhouettes, a different kind of nausea churning in her unconscious gut; this feeling born of fear.
For once there was some actual creature — creatures now, which actually inspired fear in the Slayer. Not fear of death or pain as she expected to feel if she ever again encountered the stick-waving Council-summoned demon... No, this fear was something she couldn't identify. She was terrified by their very existence. By their identity.
In her unconscious mind she could remember that she knew who they were and that who they were was terrifying... but exactly who that was, was not part of the memory. But they did speak... more or less. They laughed at her. They laughed because they had deceived her.
Niki stirred in her delirium, slowly opening her eyes to find herself laying undignified on the pavement outside the bar, her pockets all turned inside out as the bartender had likely searched her person for the money she owed for the Stuff.
Niki swallowed, she had been deceived again. Or, at least, she would be... she remembered that much. Standing and brushing herself off, she marched down the street with the pulse-pounding power she remembered from the highs induced by Stuff in her earlier years. She would find these deceivers: she already remembered finding them... and they would finally have to answer to the Slayer.
--
Rachel stood before the desk of Marcus Hamilton yet again. Yet again she offered her hand and he yet again he refused to shake it. Sitting down as if not insulted, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to start.
"Mrs. Kilpatrick," he began with a cavalier demeanor which she could not imitate no matter how hard she tried, "your private investigator has been observing your husband for months now and I've called you here because he has compiled a preliminary report which you are entitled to read."
Rachel slowly inclined her head. "You've read it?"
A brief frown flickered through Hamilton's eyes. "Of course not. I assured you that all information between the investigator and yourself would remain confidential and it has. I only convey to you the degree of importance of the information from what the investigator tells me, and he tells me that his preliminary report is complete."
Hamilton slid a thick, sealed manila envelope across his desk toward the woman sitting with her hands tightly clenched. There was a moment when she just stared at it — unopened, inoffensive, as of yet proving nothing. Finally she swallowed and reached out, lifting it and bringing it to her lap.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "When can I expect the final report?"
Hamilton took a deep breath and shrugged. "That depends on whether or not you feel the information collected to date to be conclusive. If you want, we can continue the investigation for another few months. If not, the final report can be in your hands by the end of the week."
Rachel nodded, glancing down at the thick envelope. "I'll have to get back to you."
Hamilton nodded. "Of course, of course. You can call my office any time... day or night."
Rachel felt the thickness of the document within the envelope. At least two hundred pages, all about her husband and his activities... maybe his indiscretions... maybe not. With a breath of composure she stood and turned to go, knowing by now that Hamilton was not the hand shaking type.
"Thank you," she said distantly over her shoulder. She continued to remind herself she was justified in doing this... this was the reason private investigators existed in the first place, but as she carried the weight of the envelope through the receiving office towards the elevator, she couldn't help but feel that it somehow made her dirty.
--
Logan reclined in his small cubicle, missing his large office at Wolfram and Hart. It probably didn't miss him, though. If he had stayed any longer, he probably would have been fired and given a less than savory severance package.
Glancing left, then right, Logan hunched down over his desk again and refocused his attention on the tiny cactus which was the sole decoration his small desk merited. The cactus was small and unobtrusive, but Logan had been spending a lot of time on it lately. He had recently become very aware of his one sided magical abilities. Hurt but not heal. Kill but not resurrect. His emotions and stress level being the only way to call on those violent abilities.
The lawyer smirked: except for his car. The little brown fixer upper was held together by most of the Olympians and a few of the Egyptian deities and the only reason Logan could come up with as to why this worked was that he often became so angry at his car for dying, as parts of it did, that keeping it alive a piece at a time was in fact a very cruel and violent thing to do. Love had no part in it. Love was a weakness as far as Logan's power was concerned. Peace and tranquility and contentment were the times when he felt least powerful. Fear and anger were his motivators. Fear of someone hurting what he loved; anger at someone already having done so.
So now he concentrated on the cactus. The happy, inconspicuous little cactus which had been content to sit in the corner between the paperclips and the inbox now found itself the center of attention of a conjurer with a history of violent emotional instability and magical rampages. If cacti could sweat, this one would have been.
Logan slowly moved his hands over the little spiky thing, chanting very, very quietly. He commanded the cactus to grow, to fill and expand, to reach its full potential as an office plant. When he pulled his hands back, the cactus was a little black lump of quivering jelly.
"Nice trick," the young, red-haired man from last night stepped into the cubicle, his hands in his pockets. "What happens if you do that to something that's already Jell-O?"
Logan leaned back and crossed his arms. "Oz, right?" The young man nodded but Logan shook his head. "When do people start naming their kids Oz?"
The young man smiled. "My name is Daniel Osborne, but everyone calls me Oz."
"Where's... uh... where's Loki?" Logan gave up trying to refer to them both as the same person. Language just hadn't been invented with time travel in mind.
Oz replied without missing a beat. "He has some other business to take care of."
--
Niki hurried down the street, her destination clear. It was this way. Not a direction, just a feeling, guided by her memory of the future. She had been walking for hours, too consumed by getting where she was going to stop and think. She had not a dollar to her name and hadn't eaten in two days, but nothing was on her mind at the moment but the warehouse she had seen in her vision.
If fighting the demon with the horns was her death —her destiny— then the confrontation in the warehouse must happen before that. Logically, she should be avoiding the warehouse: As long as she avoided it, she would be putting off her death... But something urged her on; demanded she meet it, fight it and for once win. Maybe there was nothing at all urging her on but destiny: The prophet under the bridge had told her the Deceivers would end... she thought... sometime around now. Then again, he hadn't predicted her death so soon either. Between Whistler and an insane prophet who had blown himself up, as much as she loathed to, she had to trust Whistler.
So she hurried along the street to meet her destiny, her stomach an empty pit and her muscles on fire from running for hours. The surge from the Stuff was dying off now and—
The nightstick connected hard with her forehead and she landed hard on her back, seeing stars. Before she could even blink, a hand took her ankle and dragged her into the nearest alley. In seconds, she had shaken off the initial shock and jumped to her feet.
Three men and two women faced her now, forming a semicircle which hemmed her in against the back wall of the alley. Niki looked from face to face. They didn't feel... no, they weren't vampires. Or demons. One of them reached for something on his belt. Niki tensed, raising her fists for a fight.
"We've got her," the man barked into the radio. "Tell all units to meet at this position." He clipped the small device back to his belt, then all five of them took a step back.
"Niki Valtaine," one of the other men said authoritatively, reaching into his back pocket for something the Slayer couldn't see, "by authority of the Council of Watchers, we hereby take you into custody for reckless—"
"Are you fucking kidding me" Niki laughed out loud, her eyes lighting up with joy. "Five humans? You guys just won't take a hint, will you?"
The man who had been talking scowled and continued. "For reckless disregard for the orders of the Council and for the murders of Richard Addison, Kenneth Wright—"
"Look, guys, I'm sure you've gone to a lot of trouble to find me..." she glanced down at the walkie talkies they all carried, "playing secret agent and everything, but I'm in a hurry, so can I just beat the living shit out of you now?"
The man who she had again interrupted pulled the shackles from behind his back and stepped towards her. "You're not going to be hurting anyone ever again."
Niki's fists tightened and she tensed for a spinning kick. Just as she was about to make this little prick wish he'd become a sailor, one of the two women of the group raised her hand and Niki found she couldn't move.
"Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that historians and bounty hunters are the only thing the Council has going for it," the woman cocked her head, almost insulted that Niki had been ignoring them up until then. "You've given the coven an interesting run, Niki. You life has been anything but boring."
Niki twisted inside the binding spell, but couldn't stop the man from slapping the shackles around her wrists. As Niki watched, he bolted them tight and tugged to make sure they would hold. They were no doubt designed to hold a Slayer. "If you want me dead," she said between clenched teeth, "then you'll have to let me go: I've seen how this plays out. A demon kills me, not a bunch of witches and their pet secret agents."
"What would you know about your destiny?" the second woman asked, stepped closer to the Slayer than any of the others dared.
"I'm not answering any of your questions, bitch," Niki spat, glaring at the smaller, lighter yet more powerful woman standing before her.
The woman shrugged. "You choice. But I guarantee you it doesn't matter how you die. The coven has seen that the line of Slayers has to continue according to schedule if the balance is to be maintained. Your time is officially over and the new Chosen One is due any day now."
"Well, as much as I hate throwing the Council's schedules off balance... I've got my own plans and they happen to include dying when and how I choose."
"Well," said the man who has shackled her, "you'll have to forgive us if we don't have buckets of faith in you. I don't know what the Powers were smoking when you were called, but I think it's fair to say you were the biggest mistake in the history of vampire slaying."
"Really?" Niki said sarcastically, "the whole history? Wow. Do I get a plaque or a sidewalk star or something?"
"Can we kill her yet?" one of the witches demanded, but she was waved off by the man who was apparently the leader of the group.
"You said the coven had foreseen the day and time of her death." He stared at Niki with a look which said he enjoyed his job. "We have to wait until then if the line is going to proceed."
"I don't think it's up to you," a merry voice called from the mouth of the alley. All heads turned and most faces turned to frowns. The man with the white silk shirt strode casually towards them, brushing a strand of blond hair from his face.
Niki looked the most puzzled of all of them. "Logan?" she said with confusion. "You... look different."
Loki grinned widely, showing perfect white teeth. "Niki," he said with a hungry look in his eyes. "It's good to see you again." She frowned, a little taken aback.
"Uh.. Thanks. You too."
The witches were slowly backing up, their eyes widening. "It's him... he's the—"
"Take a nap," Loki ordered, waving a hand before him. The two women dropped to the ground, unconscious. "And you three," the conjurer frowned with disapproval at the three men who had drawn their guns and were backing away. "Chill out."
With a twist of light, they were gone and Niki found she could move again. The Slayer looked around the alley and stepped over the unconscious women and took the man's proffered hand. "Where'd they go?" she asked hesitantly.
"I sent them on a vacation to— well... think 'North of Santa Clause.'"
Niki was staring at the man's shirt, frowning as if she knew something was seriously wrong. "Logan... what's going on? Where'd you come from and how—"
"Is this better?" He snapped his fingers and instead of a white shirt he wore his usual tan jacket and his hair was short again. "Ah, that's better. When in Rome..."
"Logan, I—" the Slayer was cut off as Loki took her roughly by the shoulders and kissed her more passionately than any man in her entire life. When he finally pulled away, his eyes alight with desire, she couldn't have been farther from wanting to find a warehouse or a horned demon...
--
Hanna lay upside down on the couch, her feet dangling over the back, her face red and her eyes darting over the pictures of her favorite celebrities in the upside down magazine. It was just after noon and there was nothing good on TV. If she'd been any other self respecting teenage girl, she would have wished she could be at the mall right now, but her social life still hadn't recovered from the stories of vampires and the follow-up rumors of self-mutilation and she enjoyed the quiet of the house.
It didn't really matter. When September rolled around, she'd be in highschool — bottom rung of the ladder, but at least it was a different school: a different ladder and another chance for a social life. Maybe a new boyfriend.
Despite the painful ending to her and Matt's relationship, she had enjoyed the feeling of sharing her life with someone else. Especially the feeling of sharing that terribly heavy secret of who her father really was. At first she had felt it made her special. It was, after all, cool to have secrets, but she had soon discovered that this secret was too dangerous to share and now it was driving her crazy. She already wished she didn't know her dad was a sorcerer. But wishing didn't make the burden go away.
She tumbled off the couch onto the floor the instant the doorbell rang. Quickly standing up, she swayed precariously as the blood rushed from her head. Staggering to the door, she giggled a little at the dizziness. Her little grin melted from her face as Matt stared back at her from the other side of the doorway.
"Hey," he said, his gaze as always seeing straight into her soul. But now that gaze looked guilty and hesitant, as if it knew it had no right to see her soul.
Hanna sighed in annoyance and went to close the door. "Go away." But he reached in and put his hand on the door to keep it open.
"I just want to talk," he said gently.
"Well I don't," she insisted, grabbing the edge of the door with both hands and trying to force it closed.
"What happened... I didn't really want your dad to get hurt— I just—" he struggled to hold the door open, finally planting his foot at the base of the door.
"You lied to me," Hanna said angrily, "I told you everything about me, and you told me your foster mom was a guidance counselor."
Matt winced. "She was a guidance counselor. She... also was a demon." He shrugged helplessly. "I was afraid you would overreact!"
Hanna kicked his foot from the doorway. "Well this is me overreacting." She slammed the door in his face but as soon as she had turned to leave it at that, Matt opened the door again and stepped inside.
"Ugh, get out!" she turned on him, pointing angrily back out the door. "Don't you get it? We're done! We're finished!"
"We're not finished," Matt argued, crossing his arms. "Not until I get to say what I want to say – not until you've heard my side of it."
"I've seen your side of it!" She shouted. "Your side of it is a smoking hole in the ground! It wouldn't have been that way if you'd just told me—"
"You little brat," Matt growled, his hands making fists. "You've had everything handed to you! I thought you understood me, but you're just daddy's little girl, aren't you?"
Hanna was shaking her head in exasperation. "God! You're such a jerk! I wish you would just—"
--
Blind and Dangerous Act 3
Logan yawned despite himself. It was later than usual, and his day had been anything but boring. His hands gripped the steering wheel and he blinked away the fatigue. It wouldn't do to crash now, not after everything.
The young man sitting in the passenger seat had spent the afternoon meditating with him, explaining to him the rudimentary Buddhist methods of controlling his power. Apparently there was some very amusing paradox involved with this, but Logan didn't understand it and probably wouldn't for a good twenty years.
The conjurer still had a very long way to go before completely mastering the power he wielded, but Oz assured him it would happen and he would go on to do... great things. Logan couldn't help but worry about the way Oz had said that, but the prospect of controlling the power that frightened even him was appealing. As it turned out, even introductory intensive meditation was exhausting and Logan looked forward to getting home and sleeping for a good eight hours.
The streetlights flashed by above them and a miserable rain began, pattering all over the windshield and scattering the orange light.
"Feel like stopping for a drink?" Logan asked, glancing for a moment to his red haired passenger. The smaller man slowly shook his head. He had some unidentifiably troubled look in his eyes.
"No, I think you should get home." The young man swallowed. "I don't know what's keeping Loki... would you mind if I crashed on your couch?"
Logan considered the ramifications of bringing home a stranger at this hour. He thought of Rachel's reaction and smirked. "Only if you don't mind some company," he chuckled for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Uh... yeah. Sure you can crash."
Oz nodded with distant gratitude. The little brown car pulled into the driveway to find all the lights already out. Logan reached for his black umbrella and opened the driver's door, only to find the rain had momentarily let up.
He led Oz up to the front door and fumbled with his keys, unlocking it and marching inside making little attempt to be quiet. He may be late, but it was still too early for Rachel to be in bed. As a matter of fact... Hanna should still be awake.
Logan's blood suddenly ran cold. Motioning Oz to be quiet, Logan very quickly and quietly removed his khaki jacket and kicked off his shoes, making his way silently up the stairs. Despite Logan's gestures, Oz followed, unsure of what he expected to find.
Walking on the edges of his sock feet and avoiding the places he knew the floor creaked, Logan moved down the dark upstairs hallway, coming first to Hanna's bedroom where some dim light could be seen under the doorway.
Without a word, Logan pushed the door open and stepped inside, his toes feeling numb. He called on everything he had learned today about his kaya and the sunyata, but it all seemed very far away as he entered his daughter's bedroom. Oz stopped at the top of the stairs and waited, looking uncertainly over his shoulder into the darkness.
Logan let out his breath at last as his eyes fell upon Hanna, sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed, holding her knees to her chest, crying.
"Honey," Logan said gently, squatting down next to her and reaching to take her into his arms. "Honey, what happened? Are you okay? Is your mother okay?"
Hanna resisted Logan's hug, her tear stung eyes narrowing to anger. "You— you said you killed her," she sobbed, giving him a hard shove in the shoulders. She laid her head in her arms and wiped her tears away with her sleeves.
"What are you talking about?" Logan asked, his worry growing again. "Killed who?"
"That demon!" Hanna shouted at him, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "You killed her! It's your fault! I thought she was dead!"
"Honey, listen to me!" Logan took Hanna with a firm grip by the shoulders and shook her gently once. "What happened?" he asked, looking firmly into her blue eyes.
"Matt," she swallowed hard, trying to keep back more tears. After a moment of staring into her father's uncomprehending eyes, she collapsed into his shoulder and cried. "Matt!" she sobbed. "He's dead— I s–said I wished he would just die and he did!" She gripped her father's shirt in white knuckled fists. "There was a demon there, she said— she granted my wish and Matt died!"
Logan gently stroked his daughter's hair, his jaw tight. His hands trembled as he held her tight. There was nothing — no chance at all of keeping Hanna out of this. He had tried. He had fought and killed to keep her out of this world: out of this grief. Something much more powerful than he was fighting against him. But it would fail.
"I take it back," Hanna sobbed, holding Logan tighter and tighter. "I take it back. I take it back. I didn't mean it!"
Logan swallowed, slowly lifting his gaze to the ceiling and the uncaring gods above. He slowly shook his head, his eyes burning with hate.
"Logan!" Oz dashed into the room, his eyes wide. "We have to go– we have to..." He frowned as he saw the girl Logan was holding. His eyes were fixed firmly on Hanna. His jaw slowly dropped. "Wait...What year is this?"
"What's wrong?" Logan turned quickly, standing and bringing his daughter her feet.
Oz shook his head and concentrated on what mattered. "We have to get out of here. It's time—" he tapped the watch on his wrist.
"Time for what?" Logan frowned, still holding Hanna's head against his shoulder.
"Time will tell," a voice said from behind them. Logan and Hanna slowly turned to see what Oz was looking at. The conjurer's eyes widened and Hanna bit her lip, trying not to make a sound.
--
Niki's teeth sank into her bottom lip, trying to hold back the scream. Then he plunged into her again. And again. And again, harder. His groans filled her, his heartbeat was as fast as hers. He had never been this good. Never tasted like this.
Loki kneaded her flesh with fingers which burned to the touch. Her skin slid under his fingers, slick with hot sweat. His lips drew her into his mouth, suckling, gently biting as he slammed hard into her again and again, his force racking her body. Sparks of pleasure crackled from his hands as he used them on her.
Her hands slid down his back, holding him against her, pulling him always closer and deeper as the heat of him filled her with every pulse. Never been this good. Even their first time — her first time with a real man, had been nothing compared to this. His every look brought her to the peak, the electric desire of his skin on hers was ecstasy.
She had long since forgotten where they were. She knew somewhere in her mind it was not where they had started. As crazy and stupidly romantic as it sounded, she could swear they really had been moving the Earth.
He had taken her to one of the sleazier demon bars with only one thing in mind. When he had touched her naked form again for the first time in twenty years, the bar had faded and he had been kissing her on the bridge in moonlight. She had returned his kiss and found herself exploring his new body in a silver field. He had spread her thighs and kissed her there on a rolling red ocean by a bleeding sunset.
He thrilled her now on the edge of a high cliff above a foaming sea. But her eyes were closed and she couldn't hear anything but his breath and heartbeat. She sucked in a breath and held his head to her neck as he feasted on her flesh, her hips jerking to his rhythm.
When she finally came down from the sky and his electric touch numbed, they were laying on the bed in the back of the bar, sweating on sheets without a crease in them. Niki laid her head back from his lips and tried to catch her breath, the hum of his power shivering through every ache in her body.
His chest heaving, he slowly laid himself down next to her on the bed which had never been used.
"Logan, I thought... I thought you said you couldn't do this anymore." She said between gasps for breath.
His hand ran up her glistening stomach, trailing sparks which made her flesh quiver. "Did it seem to you like I couldn't?"
In the darkness, they left the bar still flushed and walked hand in hand through the light rain. Niki was looking ahead and Loki was just staring at her. They crossed the street and took shelter in the doorway of a small shop.
After a long while of staring into the damp night, Niki turned to the man she knew as Logan Kilpatrick. "You would never lie to me, would you?"
Loki frowned. He had been treading on new ground since he had decided to kiss her. "Of course I wouldn't." Logan wouldn't lie to Niki. Loki lied to everyone. "I love you," he brushed the damp hair from her face.
She hugged the leather jacket tighter around her, turning back to the night. "I don't want to die," she said at last, her eyes seeking comfort in the blackness. "I don't care about prophecy or the next Slayer. I'm not ready."
Loki's frown deepened and he held her tighter. "Of course you're not ready. You're not going to— who said you were going to die?"
Niki's eyes continued to search the darkness, cones of rain illuminated by the streetlights. "Whistler. Those Council guys. Everyone says I'm going to die— says I have to die."
"Well everyone should keep their mouths shut." Loki ground his teeth. "You'll figure this out, Niki. You'll find them and everything will be okay for you."
The Slayer blinked as she scanned the darkness, catching movement in the shadows. "Find who?" she asked absently.
"The Deceivers," Loki answered without thinking. Instantly he closed his eyes and cursed himself. He let his arm fall from her shoulders as she turned to him with suspicion.
"I never told you I was looking for them—" she took a step back and swallowed hard. "Who the fuck are you?"
"There they are!" a voice shouted out of the darkness. With the tromping of wet boots, Niki and Loki found themselves faced with a dozen men and women, some holding guns, some holding radios and some holding their hands out and speaking quietly in Latin.
"Niki Valtaine, by the authority of the Council of Watchers, you are hereby taken into custody until such time as it is determined—"
Loki swept his arms down to the street and a roaring wall of flame rose up between the line of men and women and the Slayer and conjurer.
"I'm Logan," Loki insisted, beads of sweat appearing on his brow. "You can either trust me, or—"
With a hiss, the wall of flame died down and four women stepped out of the night, their hands raised before them.
"Back off," Loki commanded, but they waved off his power, and continued their approach. "I don't want to hurt you," Loki warned. "Seriously, because I don't know what that would do to history..."
"History?" Niki glanced quickly from the man in the khaki jacket to the advancing witches. "What the hell is going on?"
Loki looked from one witch to the next, judging each according to her power. Impressive, even for the Council. Behind them were men holding guns, ready to take out anything that got past the members of the coven.
His heart pounding, Loki closed his fists and closed his eyes. He knew how it was supposed to end, but he couldn't decide how much he was supposed to influence it. He obviously had no memory of this and didn't want to screw anything up... Then again, he'd never been one to second guess himself. "Fuck it."
Logan swept his hands down his body, dissolving the glamour which cloaked him. Standing now in a ruffling white silk shirt and tossing his shoulder length blond hair from his face, he faced off against the four witches who had come to end him. Unlike them, however, he knew he would be alive tomorrow. He also knew some things about Niki he would rather not tell her.
His eyes glowed yellow while the eyes of the witches darkened to black. The ground trembled beneath them and the rain intensified. With a pained buzzing, the streetlights brightened, then went out altogether.
--
Oz slowly stepped in front of Logan and the girl he was holding. His movements were careful and calculated. With a gentle but firm hand, he pulled the conjurer and teen back towards the bedroom door, all three of them keeping their eyes on the demon which watched from near the window.
"Give it to me," the muscular form ordered, raising the branch it held and shaking it menacingly.
"Give what to you?" Logan asked bravely, taking his cue from Oz and maneuvering Hanna behind himself.
"It thinks you're Loki. It wants Wilson," Oz whispered over his shoulder as he stood in a defensive position between the two Kilpatricks and the thing which had come to kill them all.
"Who's Wilson?" Logan whispered back. "You never got that far."
"We have to go," Oz warned. "We're no match for this thing."
Their eyes all remained locked and they all took a step back as the Timekeeper took a step forward. As it moved forward, it seemed to move through a dozen shadows and each time it came again into the light it was slightly different: Beginning as a bull of a creature with muscles upon muscles, it became, upon the completion of its stride, a wizened old man, with a beard reaching down to the cord which tied the waist of its cloak. Its eyes were sunken and grey, its branch bare and brown.
"Give it to me," the creature commanded, taking another step forward. This time it changed again, cycling through skeletal and halting at the strength and slenderness of youth. It shook its stick again and this time Logan felt a distinct pressure between his temples. He blinked but the shaking and quivering of the leaves continued, filling his brain with pressure.
"Dad..." Hanna had her eyes closed now and her face was buried in his shirt. He knew she felt the pain as well. But it wasn't enough. He was scared, for sure, but his toes were anything but cold and his palms were clammy. He was empty. Not now he pleaded, glancing up with a resentful appeal to the ceiling he had cursed earlier.
"Get her out of here," Oz ordered, his gaze fixed on the advancing demon. The young red haired man took no further steps back. "I'll hold him off until Loki gets here."
"What are you gonna—" Logan began, then watched as the young man before him began to change. Logan turned and pulled his daughter from the room, not particularly curious to see what Oz was when he was threatened. Logan had seen enough good people turned into monsters for one lifetime, himself included.
He hurried down the dark stairs, Hanna still clutched against him. He realized once he got to the bottom that he had no idea where she would be safe. The safest place he could think of was with him — but that was the least safe place while this demon was hunting him.
He glanced over his shoulder and heard a wolf howl. He shuddered, not sure if it was Oz or the demon making the noise. Something fell hard upstairs. Logan flung the door open and led Hanna into the back of the car. It was still raining.
Pausing and looking at her face through the car window which now separated them, he thought hard. Get in the car. Drive away. Save Hanna. He looked back up over his shoulder to the dark window which was Hanna's bedroom. Go back upstairs. Fight the demon.
He looked back down to the glass and the eyes of his daughter. He knew she could read his face. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was going to do. He slowly inclined his head as an unspoken apology. With a snap of his fingers and a twist of light, he was back in her room, grabbing the demon by the back of the shoulders, trying to throw him as one would throw a bus.
With an earsplitting scream, the now skeletal demon turned and struck Logan across the face with the dead stick, sending him to the ground. From there Logan could see a great wolf pounce. A sudden nausea overwhelmed him and he blacked out.
--
Loki reached out in the darkness as the chanting of Latin grew louder. He took the Slayer by the hands and took a deep breath. "Time to decide," he announced, his tone remaining patient. "Trust me or don't."
Niki swallowed. It wasn't Logan. She knew that now. He looked like Logan... almost exactly like Logan. But it wasn't Logan. A terrible though made her shiver inside the warmth of her leather jacket. One of the Deceivers? The sickening feeling which she knew would accompany the identity was there. Was this the real Logan? Had the other Logan been a deception? "Trust you?" She asked with unbelievable disdain.
Loki flashed a grin. "Good enough for me." He gripped her hands and pulled her against him, engulfing them both in a twist of light.
Before she could register what had happened and resist, she was looking at him in a new light. No longer the orange glow of distant streetlights, but the grey light of dawn. He stood with her hands in his, his grin still spread across his face.
"You're here," he said still gazing into her eyes. He watched as she looked around. Her eyes widened as she turned from him and saw that they were standing in front of a large warehouse. The warehouse. The one she remembered. "Thanks for trusting me."
She jerked her hands from his and took a step back. "You're one of them? A Deceiver?"
Loki laughed out loud. "I'm a liar," he pulled a silver pocket watch from his khaki pants glanced at the time, "that'll have to do." As she continued to watch him with uncertain caution, he grabbed her by the shoulder and drew her in for a long kiss. He finally pulled his lips close to her ear and whispered. "It's been a blast."
With a smile to have seen her again for the last time, he was gone in a twist of light.
Niki turned to the big double doors of the warehouse and took in a deep breath. She would have to tell Logan... if there really was a Logan, that someone was masquerading as him. She would have to tell him... she really would...
But her feet carried her towards the warehouse, her eyes fixed on it. Whatever that demon with the stick had done... it had been the most accurate predictor of the future Niki had ever known. Seers... witches... prophets... none of them would have told her she would be standing before this warehouse now. None of them could tell her what she would find inside. For all their foresight, they were as in the dark as she was. But they weren't here. It wasn't their futures they predicted and argued over, gambled with and dished out in random code. It was hers.
Another silk shirt ruffled in the cool breeze not far away. The figure wearing this shirt was dark, with close cropped black hair, his pants black and his collar tied with blue silk. He watched, rapt, as Niki reached for the handle of the door.
With a little smirk, he turned away and headed for his appointment. It was almost time.
--
Blind and Dangerous - Act 4
Oz launched himself at the tank of a demon, catching a muscular forearm in his jaws. He tore and growled, slashing with claws and gnashing with teeth, but the robed guardian of the timeline didn't seem to budge. He took the werewolf by the scruff of the neck and threw him across the bedroom.
Logan dragged himself to his feet and willed with all his might that his feet freeze and his hands burn. Nothing. He delivered a shockingly powerful punch nonetheless, succeeding only in bruising his knuckles. With a shout of forced anger, he grabbed the wrist that held the branch and twisted it, trying to force the demon to drop it.
The muscular face melted away as it turned to look at him; the eyes sinking back into the eye sockets and the flesh shriveling against the skull. It let out an angry and high pitched scream, opening its bony jaw wide for Logan to see the nothingness inside its mouth.
Logan gritted his teeth and twisted hard, succeeding in making the skeleton drop the branch. The leaves, quickly browning and dying away, brushed across the man's wrist as it fell and Logan cried out in pain, sinking to his knees as the nausea took him again.
Images flashed before his brain and his eyes widened. They weren't coherent images. Like impressions of memories... And he couldn't stop them. Mixed in with them were real memories: memories of things he had done, things which had happened.
I wish you knew what it was like to lose everyone you ever loved! Matt looked up from the smoking pit. Logan watched as he himself led Hanna away from the battle scarred house. But the memory continued. He remembered how Matt had reached for the amulet sitting in the center of the circle of blackened earth. Halfrek wasn't dead. A vengeance demon couldn't be killed by a mortal. These were things that Matt knew as he carried the amulet inside and stared at the ruins of his house.
Logan twisted on the floor of Hanna's bedroom, gut twisting nausea torturing his body as memories of things which hadn't happened tortured his mind.
Oz throttled the branch-less demon, slashing and mauling the wizened old thing, shoving him through ages and stages of life, always taking advantage of the weaker periods: crafting his attack to match the weakness of his enemy, as Loki had taught him.
Logan's eyes fluttered open and he saw the branch lying on the carpet, the carpet rotting beneath it. A foul smell was coming from the piece of wood. With a sinister resolve, Logan got up onto his knees and reached for the source of the memories.
--
Michael stood next to the curtain, gazing down at the sleeping patient. He wouldn't make it through the night, Michael knew. That wasn't the reason the man from Baltimore was here, though. He had been given the gift of controlling the mechanism of life and death, but only for his own convenience. It would do no good to get a time mixed up and wind up visiting someone who was already dead. His job was too important for that. If necessary he would pull people back from the edge to do what he did. Once he was done, if it was their time, he would let them go.
The tradition of Michael the Archangel was something Mike from Baltimore hadn't really paid much attention to as a child. He had gotten the crash course, naturally, when some Power somewhere had sent a being known as Clifford to call Mike to his destiny.
The ridiculous shirt and tie had come with the job, as well as a mission statement which put in simple terms what was to be a long eternity of thankless service to mankind: Defend the souls of the faithful, now and at the hour of their death.
There were many manifestations of Michael around the world, Mike was told — not as though every person was visited before they died: only those whose souls were in jeopardy from the evil which plagued the world. It was a service: one for which Mike had been drafted and told he would do until he himself found his replacement.
Defender of the innocent, warrior to stand before the children in the face of the darkness. It had all sounded very noble back in nineteen forty one. He hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to simply get close to the dying. He had volunteered as a medic in the Second World War and had been to Vietnam. But he had had his fill of war. There was plenty of soul-threatening evil here in New York City.
Given a lifetime of watching death and hearing the cries of souls, Michael had come to an understanding with his destiny and with whatever Power demanded the lives he watched end. Michael had taken to helping others come to terms with their loved ones' deaths, most recently as the grief counselor of Dodd Junior Highschool, Freeport. And for the second time in a lifetime of thankless service, he had discovered the Powers' cruel sense of humor.
If Cliff were here now, Michael would gladly help him die.
Anyway, he had directives to perform. Just a few more things to do here, he felt it in his bones. He glanced over at Rachel who looked like she would fall asleep on her feet.
"You've been here all night?" he asked with concern.
She nodded groggily, looking down at the chart and squinting. "I had some reading to do," she admitted absently. With a frown, she looked over to the man in the silk shirt. "You're here early."
Michael shrugged. "I came in when I heard there was a boy from Dodd who had died. I'm probably going to be getting some calls from parents." He watched as her eyes widened. "You didn't know?" Of course she didn't. Matt had never seen the inside of an ambulance.
She shook her head. "I– I should get home..." she quickly looked around, finally dumping the chart at the feet of the unconscious patient. "I... I need to be home."
She hurried out of the ICU blinking rapidly. She got to her coat and pulled it on, hearing the thump of the open manilla envelope as it fell to the floor from within the coat. She stared down at it, the white of several of the pages showing from the open end. Blink. Oh, yeah. She shook her head again to clear the confusing events which had placed her here now.
She had spent the night scanning the document given to her by Marcus Hamilton. There really was nothing incriminating about Logan's actions since the trial, at least, not that the investigator had picked up on. He had stayed out late a couple of times and there were several dates during which the P.I. Hadn't been able to locate her husband, but his conclusions had been fairly decisive. If there had been anything between Niki Valtaine and Logan Kilpatrick, it had ended two years ago, like Logan had said.
The thickness and weight of the document was like a burden of guilt now as Rachel carried it with her to the door. She stopped, looking down at the paper in her hand. After a long pause, she reached out and dropped the entire envelope of pages into the trash can near the door. Without another thought, she pushed the door open and marched out into the main hallway, pushing past the inpatients and starting out into the grey of the early morning.
--
Logan took hold of the stick with a shaking hand. It burned as if he had taken hold of fire itself. He resisted the reflex to drop it and closed his eyes, cutting through the onslaught of memories the stick forced on him. With every word Oz had used during meditation guiding him, Logan separated from inside himself the hot and the cold. The natural differentiation caused by his rage or terror; Logan forced its reversal. He could now feel his sock feet smoldering, his face numb with cold and his breath coming as fog. His hands, too, were ice-cold, the fire of the stick diminishing.
When he stood completely again to face the duel which was still raging, he had a quiet confidence in himself again. Master, perhaps, of his power at last? He raised the stick which he now held easily and shook it at the demon locked in battle with the wolf which was Oz.
Oz was thrown back and the demon shrieked, its muscles slithering and bunching beneath its skin. The burlap robe finally falling away as the demon's body grew to unnatural proportions.
Logan glanced back over his shoulder and saw Oz, shirtless and in human form, getting up off the floor with a grunt. "Break the stick," he said forcefully, holding one arm which appeared to be broken.
Logan looked back at the frozen branch, the leaves dusted with frost and icy crystals snaking across the bark. He squeezed the thing tight, feeling it bend in his palm. But a massive hand caught him in the throat and he was lifted from the floor.
Oz's eyes widened as he watched the hulk of a demon tear the stick from Logan's frosty hand. It opened its huge mouth wide and roared, tightening its grip on the conjurer's throat.
With a twist of light and the sound of great beating wings, two figures stood on either side of the massive creature, both wearing white silk shirts. The blond haired one drove a massive burst of electricity into the demonic arm holding the stick and the black haired one caught Logan in his arms as the demon dropped him.
Loki slashed lightning across the demonic face, catching the thick arm in the irresistible grip of an invisible hand. With a shriek, he snapped the arm free of the body, watching as the muscles dissolved beneath the skin and a thin, skeletal, naked figure clutched at its shoulder where the arm had been severed.
Loki tugged the branch free of the bony hand and snapped it over his knee, the demon screaming in agony. Before their eyes, the skeletal figure melted into a true skeleton, its bones eventually collapsing as sand to the already ruined carpet.
Oz came to Loki's side and was handed half of the stick. "Souvenir," the conjurer said dryly. "Good work." They both turned and found Michael holding the unmoving body of Logan on the floor.
"He okay?" Oz asked, his face showing his confusion. "Uh, I mean, he has to be, right? Cause... you know... you're still here." He turned to Loki who merely shrugged.
"He'll be fine," Michael said, running his hand down the side of Logan's face. "It's quite obviously not his time yet." Logan coughed as he sat up, massaging his throat where the demon's hand had crushed it.
"Michael?" he said weakly. "Am I dead?"
Loki laughed. "We'll be fine," he said dismissively. He took Michael by the elbow and stood him up to face the conjurer. "He's too choked up right now, so I'll say it: I appreciate everything you've done for me — everything you will do."
Michael nodded once at the gratitude. He took Oz's arm and touched the spot where the break was, setting and healing the bone. Looking from Oz to the wizard, he swallowed hard. "I have one more thing to give you," he said with no trace of a smile on his face.
Loki gestured to his past self who lay on the floor, sucking in painful breaths. "Give away."
Michael shook his head. "No, something to give to you." To Loki's frown, Michael slowly lowered his head, as if bowing. He took hold of the silk collar of his shirt and slipped the blue silk tie from around his neck, pulling it over his head and draping it in Loki's hands.
The cynicism and coarse amusement faded as the angel laid the gift in his arms. Loki's mouth hung open for a minute or two, uncertain of what to say. "Seriously?" he said with awe. Michael nodded. With infinite reverence and care, Loki pulled the tie over his head and adjusted it around his neck. It was a perfect fit. He swallowed and turned to Oz who was watching with a look of reserved judgment. "How do I look?" The conjurer asked, turning a little from side to side. Oz shrugged a little.
"Now, don't fuck it up." They turned at the beating of wings and Michael was gone. Loki blinked, amazed at the volumes of unspoken authority and responsibility which the blue silk tie represented. A demon had given him the shirt, an archangel the matching tie... and he had picked out the pants himself. That summed up his existence completely.
Loki looked down at Logan who was slowly getting to his feet, trying not to swallow as it might be painful. "Here," the man in the new tie said sympathetically. He ran his hand down the man's throat, the bruising vanishing.
"So, I do get the hang of that..." Logan noted, a little smile crossing his face. Loki answered it with a troubled look. Logan blinked. "What?"
The conjurer from the future looked from Oz, in many ways his chaperone, back to the self he had sworn not to change. "It doesn't have to be the way I remember it," Loki said carefully. He was breaking every rule he had ever read about. But the Timekeeper was dead, at least for now, so who was going to stop him? "You still have time to put things right..."
Oz took the conjurer by the sleeve of his silk shirt. "It's time. We have to go." Loki nodded and turned to leave, but the hand of his former self stopped him.
"Hold on," Logan said insistently. "There's one little thing you've left out. You said we were protecting an innocent. Who's this Wilson guy I nearly died for?"
The barest hint of a grin caught Loki's eyes and a blue light glinted in them as a bright blue portal sputtered open before the conjurer and the werewolf. Loki turned back to face the young lawyer, pulling his hands apart and summoning what had started all this, but for safety sake couldn't be seen. A glowing red ball fell into his palm, its surface smokey and swirling. It was about the size of a volley ball and was the source of Loki's ability to sojourn in other time periods.
"Meet Wilson," Loki said with a little nod.
Logan's eyes widened, his jaw dropping. "You... son of a bitch!" He decked Loki hard in the jaw, sending him sprawling back into the portal. Oz laughed out loud and stepped through after him.
"Never fails," the young man called out as the portal snapped closed behind them.
Logan looked around the ruined bedroom with amazement. His future self was a complete asshole. He touched his throat absently. Moving to the window he saw the sun rising over the tops of the houses across the street. He stepped over the small pile of sand and peered down into the driveway.
Hanna stood near the front door as the little brown car pulled out onto the street with a screeching of tires. Logan frowned: Rachel was at the wheel. He watched her take off back down the street, following the bus she had ridden to get here from the hospital.
Logan squinted as the rays of sunlight caught him in the eyes. Where the hell was she going? He tried but couldn't suppress a yawn. He looked down at the clock radio on Hanna's night stand and groaned. He had to be at work in a few hours.
--
Rachel burst through the doors of the office of Marcus Hamilton, Liaison to the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart. She strode past the man who was standing inside the door and planted her hands on Hamilton's desk.
"I want you to stop investigating my husband," she said with a tone she hoped conveyed exactly how much she was not going to take "no" for an answer.
Hamilton looked up from the folders he was reading and looked for a moment from the man just inside the door to Rachel herself. "Oh?"
The woman nodded sharply. "I was told your investigator would be discreet." She glared down at Hamilton as the man by the door slowly approached. "I just talked to my daughter and she's terrified because strangers are showing up in her bedroom."
"I assure you it wasn't me." Rachel turned on the man speaking, cocking her head as if daring him to speak again. He was a daring man, though he didn't look it. "And I can prove it."
"Rachel Kilpatrick," Marcus stood from his desk and gestured to the slight young man dressed in a sharp Armani suit, "I'd like you to meet Aaron Shields, your private investigator."
"Before you terminate our arrangement," Shields said, striding around to Hamilton's desk and picking up yet another manila envelope, "I've just discovered something you might want to see..." He slid the contents of the envelope across the desk for all to see.
Though the control of time and movement across history has remained a function of mystical powers, the perception of time is a power that everyone holds. In moments of perfect vengeance or when death is near, time can slow. When the marriage between reality and continuity is questioned, time is the first casualty.
Time slowed now as Rachel stared down at the evidence the investigator had collected. These six photos did what the two hundred pages she had already read could not do: With a trembling hand which seemed to travel in slow motion, she took hold of her wedding band, her eyes stinging from the tears which wouldn't come.
Feeling numb from head to toe, she tugged the wedding band from her finger, letting her enchanted charm fall to the desk with a ringing like a small bell. Her eyes never moved from the pictures on the desk.
"Will you be wanting these?" Hamilton asked bluntly, sliding a new set of documents over the lewd images spread across the desk.
Rachel slowly brought her vision to focus on the new documents. She scanned the words at the top and her eyes rested on the single word of interest. Divorce. Her hands still trembling, she slowly nodded, taking Hamilton's hand and allowing him to shake it. He had never shaken her hand before, but she was too numb to realize why.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you," Hamilton smiled as she stared blankly at the various ruins of her marriage scattered over the lawyer's desk. Marcus nodded to Aaron who also shared the smile. Hamilton gave Rachel's hand another good shake. "We'll be sending you our bill."
--
Niki Valtaine stepped into the darkness of the warehouse, her head high. She stopped just inside the door and took a short breath, readying herself for whatever she found. She clenched and unclenched her fists, testing how weary all of last night's activities had left her.
With one final breath of courage, she started forward, psychologically prepared to meet her destiny — whatever that meant. Each step forward was a testament to her faith in Whistler as a man of honor. Each second she didn't turn and run was a shout to destiny about how much she had changed in the last two years.
Her footsteps slowed and stopped as she came to the rear wall and the doorway there which led into another section of the warehouse. In her memory, she had gone no further than this. She stood patiently, her head held high, waiting for whatever would come for her.
With the reechoing sound of cruel laughter, two figures stepped out of the doorway, still obscured in the darkness which cloaked most of the cavernous building.
"Niki," said a familiar voice, sounding as though it were spoken from smiling lips. "You have been deceived."
To Be Continued...