He couldn't read her expression, but then again, she was too drunk to have any right now. "I wouldn't say dump. I was gonna use that "I need my space" shit on you."

He groaned and let his head fall back against the couch so he could stare up at the ceiling. His feelings were conflicted, to say the least. He had been intending to put some distance between them if only to spare her any more pain - after all, getting close to him was a recipe for early death. So she moved first, he should be fine with that. And he knew he probably deserved to get the heave ho - after all, he'd inadvertently stood her up, and when he did bother to show up, he always staggered in late with blood on his clothes. He would hardly win "boyfriend of the year".

But he did care for Srina, very much so, and this stung.

She patted his chest, and tried not to lean into him, but it was clearly difficult. "Lissen, love, it's nothing personal. I still like you; you're still great in the sack. But I ... I'm a coward."

"You are not a coward."

"Fuck you! Course I am. I've spent my whole life avoidin' shit - hell, my mutation is all about avoidin' shit. I don't like confrontation, I'm more British than I will admit, I guess, and I just ... I'm not good wit' it."

He closed his eyes and nodded, trying to swallow back his feelings. This was good; this was best for everyone. Just let it happen and let it go. "That's a myth, you know."

"What is?"

"The British being non-confrontational. Some of the rowdiest people and best fighters I know are British. You just don't brag about it like Americans."

She slapped his chest, but very lightly; it was almost like she missed, even from this extremely close range. "Don't you dare go bustin' a perfectly good cultural stereotype on me when I need it."

"Sorry." He slid his arm around her and hugged her to him, mainly to spare her the embarrassment of collapsing face first against him. "It's my lifestyle, isn't it?"

She sagged against him, all warmth and the smell of rum. "I like you, Logan, enough that it scares me shitless. But I can't live in your world. I've tried, you know, but that whole Mirror Lake thing ..." she shuddered, buried her face in his neck. "We coulda died, or worse yet, been captured or somethin'. And do you know what they did to you?"

"They do that to me a lot, from what I understand." He didn't remember any of it - that hypersonic pulse really scrambled his already messed up brain - but he knew from what Helga had told them that they had found him in one of those tanks again, a water coffin where they liked to do interesting things to him. But it wasn't clear what, if anything, had been done. They probably hadn't had the time.

"It's horrible, Logan. And on top of everything they've already done to you. How do you live with it?"

A good question; one he didn't want to look at. "I dunno. I just hafta, I guess."

"I wish I could heal like you," she sighed, her breath warm on his throat. He had a feeling she didn't mean physically. "Look, I don't want this to be the end forever ... I just need a little time, y'know?"

"I understand."

She looked up at him, clearly suspicious. “Yer takin’ this too damn well. You were gonna dump me, weren’t ya, ya fucker?”

“No.” Shit! This was exactly what he meant by her noticing the little details. “But I was … uh, gonna have to return to New York. Xavier wants me for somethin’.” What a fucking liar he was. But at least it sounded reasonably plausible, and it wasn’t something she would check.

She studied his face for a moment, but was too drunk to tell if he was lying or not. She grunted noncommittally, and let her head fall back on his shoulder. “When you leavin’?”

“Tonight.” He figured he could clean up and get some sleep, then get a move on. Should he actually go to New York, or just head back to Canada, which was what he was planning to do. Why he had no idea, but he was pretty sure the rent was still paid on Yasha’s place, and it sounded like a good place to hole up alone and brood, lick his wounds. But should he do that? Even he was getting sick of himself doing that. He’d seen the bottom of too many damn bottles, and the worst part was, he never felt a single bit of that alcohol.

“So soon?”

“Yeah. Although, I might be able to stay one more night, if you like.”

She thought about it a moment before shaking her head. “If I’m sober, I might change my mind.”

He kissed her on the top of the head, and he wondered if he ever would see her again. He hoped so. He was so accustomed to having her in his life, he couldn’t imagine it without her.

****

The pub was called The Stag and Ram, and looked as dark and grotty as something in its name seemed to suggest. Walking into it was like walking into a very deep cave, the only light belonging to the neon signs and a video game in the corner, and you could barely see those through the thick haze of cigarette smoke. You wouldn’t know it wasn’t even sunset yet - in here, it was perpetual night.

He saw the man he was looking for in the darkest table in the darkest corner, and yet he was still wearing black sunglasses, his brown hair pulled back in a small and modest ponytail. For a neighborhood pub he was also dressed rather nice, with a suit jacket over a black t-shirt and jeans. He looked even more like that guy from La Femme Nikita dressed that way.

Logan got a pint of bitter from the blousy blonde bartender who wore so much make up she looked like a relative of Divine’s, and wandered over to his table. He was nursing a pint himself, and there was a small plate shoved to the side; from the smell, it used to contain a shepherd’s pie. “Shouldn’t a defender of Britain being hanging out with a better crowd?” He asked, sitting in the chair across from him.

Meldane glared at him from over his sunglasses. “You know that’s bullshit, right? I thought you knew better than to trust a vampire.”

“Oh, yeah. But judging from Giles’s reaction - or lack of same - I figured it was not only true, but he knew about it. I bet Ruby didn’t. I wonder how she’d felt if we told her about it.”

The glare continued, and it remained unconvincing. “How did you find me?”

“Giles. Asked him where you’d probably be.” He didn’t bother to tell him that Giles had actually contacted him; it seemed that his witch friend had something for him, something that she had said he would want to see. It was just an address for a pub in Dublin, Ireland, and Giles claimed he had no idea what it was about, but he trusted her. And she had saved their lives, so he supposed that proved she was one of the good guys. But why the address of a pub he’d never heard of Dublin? Could he find some trace of Spider there?

Meldane grunted and looked down at the rest of his beer like it might help. “So what exactly did he tell you about me?”

“Nothing really. He thought it would be better for you to tell me yourself.”

Again with the grunt that could have meant anything. Still, he slumped back in his chair, and said, “I can’t actually tell you, you know. Giles can’t either, not if he’s still adhering to Watchers’ Council secrecy - and why he is I have no idea, but he’s kind of an odd duck. Let’s just say that … I was born of magic. Quite literally, in fact; it ran in my veins like blood. But I wasn’t … I wasn’t very good with it. Let’s just I say I learned how to run before I learned how to walk, and I fucked up a lot. Big time. Wasn’t always the nicest guy on the planet. Then one day I got into a scrap with some beings who actually knew what they were doing, and could stand up to me. When I woke up from my coma, most of my powers were gone. I knew, if I was ever going to gain them back, I would have to change my ways, and maybe, y’know, not be evil. It’s been a slow process, but I’m gaining them back a little at a time.”

“So you’re not Human?”

“No, I am … kind of. Hard to explain. Let’s just say half Human.”

“And half magic?”

He considered that a moment before nodding. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Logan couldn’t help but scoff. “ And how the hell does that work?”

He rolled his shoulders in an unconcerned shrug. “Damned if I know. Ask my mother.”

“Morgan Le Fay, right?”

Meldane scowled at him. “You should know by now you can’t possibly believe everything you read.”

“Oh, come on, bub. I can tell I’ve struck a nerve.”

“You struck a nerve only because I’m tired of people saying that. They’re absolutely wrong, and … well, frankly, that whole thing was fucked. Women are always the evil duplicitous ones, aren’t they? And kings always noble. Jesus, has anyone paid attention to royal families? Noble my ass; they’re inbred, power hungry dictators in fancy clothes.”

Logan sipped his beer and pondered this. It could have been that Meldane was bullshitting him, but he seemed to genuinely have his knickers in a twist over this, like saying he was Morgan Le Fay’s son was some grand insult. This had to be a whole bunch of shit, but it was kind of nice to distract himself from getting dumped. “Who does that leave exactly? Guinevere?”

“Why do you assume my mother was the Human one?”

That almost made him spit out his beer. Once he choked it down, he said, “Are you saying you’re the son of Merlin?”

“His name was Myrddin, and I’m not claiming any such thing. Just drop it, okay? What do you want?”

“Want?”

“You’re not here to hear my life story. You want something from me. So spare me the agony of foreplay and just get it over with.”

He wasn’t the best wizard in the world, but he was perceptive when he set his mind to it. Of course, he also just wanted him to go the fuck away and not question him about his parentage anymore, but he could almost respect that. He didn’t like getting grilled either. “A teleportation spell is no big deal, is it?”

This led him to sigh and gulp down his beer before bothering to reply. “I am not a taxi service”

“I know, but I thought you’d be agreeable to getting me the fuck out of London as soon as possible.”

He stared at him across the table for a very long moment, and then, grimacing at how easily he had been manipulated into this, asked, “Where do you want to go?”

Sometimes being an asshole really paid off.

3

Brendan hadn’t expected to wake up ever again, so the fact that he did was beyond shocking.

His neck hurt badly, and his first thought - after the one insisting he should be dead - was that maybe Traci Lords just paralyzed him. But he had already unconsciously pushed himself up to his hands and knees, so no, that wasn’t it. What the hell had happened to him? Why wasn’t he dead?

Thanks to his stupid and otherwise useless eidetic memory, he remembered Yasha, Logan’s vamp girlfriend, telling him that Brachens were hard to kill. And had Rags had said something about Brachens having extra bones in the neck, but sometimes it was hard to understand him, what with that inscrutable accent of his. Did that mean a broken neck wasn’t enough to kill him? Boy, he had lucked out.

He sat up, trying to let his aches and pains work themselves out before attempting to stand. She and her horde were gone, which was another good thing for him, but he wondered how long he had been out. When he left the mausoleum, it was dark, but it had been basically dark when he came in, so it was no help at all.

Maybe this was a sign. Helga had always insisted he was going to get himself killed, and he almost had, so he wasn’t about to mention this to her. He had enough “I told you so” happy dances to last him a lifetime.

He decided maybe he should call it a night. Maybe if the vampires thought he was dead, they would get careless, and he could get a whole bunch more at once. Or, maybe he really should hang it up until he got a better strategy. It was awful to think that maybe he needed back up, but maybe he did.

He wandered to the Church of the Stone Temple, mainly because he wasn’t sure where else to go, and Rags was there, just leaving (probably for the bar). “Christ, Bren, where the ‘ell ‘ave ya been?” he exclaimed, crystal eyes flickering. “I thought maybe sumpfing bad ‘appened to you too.”

That didn’t sound good. “Something bad has happened?”

He nodded vigorously. “Didn’t ‘elga tell ya? Th’ guy wit’ the eyes, Summers, is ‘e’s in ‘ospital.”

Even though he’d been with him for a while, when Rags talked fast, it always took him a moment to figure out what he just said. His stomach clenched, and he hoped he’d hard him wrong. “Mr. Summers is in the hospital? Why? What happened?”

“There was an explosion at ‘is motel; a big flamey fing. I guess it’s amazing’ ‘e’s alive at all, but ‘e’s not doin’ well.”

Brendan could hardly believe what he was hearing - or what he thought he was hearing. (Rags needed subtitles - especially when he had been drinking.) “Was there a fight? Why the hell did his motel explode?” It was a very surreal life you led when you could say things like that and it didn’t seem weird.

Rags shrugged expansively, arms held wide. “No one’s sure. The media are blamin’ a gas leak, but they always say shit like tha‘. Some people I know say they picked up a major mystical blip on the radar about that time, but it wasn’t, like, minor league demon shit. It was big ass nasty, and you’d fink it’d be worse than just an explodin’ motel.”

Mr. Summers came here looking for Bob. Was that a coincidence? Did someone not want him to meet with Bob? Or was he after Bob..? No, that made no sense. Why would he do that? And he couldn’t hurt Bob at all. (But Bob could hurt him … still, making a motel go boom? Bob was a bit more subtle and ironic than that. He never used a shovel when a teaspoon and a whole bunch of amphetamines would do.)

“I can take you there,” Rags said. Brendan assumed he meant the hospital, not the site of the explosion. Not that it mattered - what could he do at the motel? Kick rubble around and agree an explosion was the cause?

Brendan nodded, the ache in his neck no longer that bad. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Did the people back at the school know? How could they, unless Xavier tried to find him with his Cerebro doohickey?

Man, if he had to call them, what would he say?

****

The address in Dublin led to a very quaint looking corner pub that had a certain sheen of newness about it, but even so was doing very good business. It was in a reasonably good neighborhood, and the clientele seemed to reflect that.

Inside, it was full of polished wood and gleaming brass, windows of frosted glass looking out on a main street where you could view the front windows of a curio shop and a book store across the way. If you leaned to the side, you could also see a small record shop advertising music on actual vinyl. It seemed like a pleasant pub in a pleasant location, and he felt like he was going into shock after being in the pit that was the Stag and Ram.

The place was almost full, but the noise of conversations were kept to a tolerable level, and he could just barely hear The Pogues coming from a hidden stereo system. He walked up to the polished oak bar, still wondering why Giles’s witch friend would send him here, and the bartender came down to him. “And what can I get you?” he asked, in a voice so familiar Logan felt a sudden chill.

He was now face to face with Angel.

It was so shocking he didn’t even know how to react. It was Angel all right, but very specifically in the flesh; his smell had changed. Oh, there was an undertone of the familiar, but it was all living Human now, no trace of death or demon, and while he didn’t have a tan - this was Ireland, after all - his skin had less of a pallor to it, more of a living glow. He looked good. He looked … happy.

Except now he was looking at him quizzically, eyebrows raised. “Uh, sir ..?”

“Wow, Angel,” he finally said, still feeling a bit flabbergasted. “I never would have expected to find you here.”

Now he looked even more confused. “Angel? You know, you’re the second American in as many days to call me that. Who is that?”

Logan couldn’t have felt more gut punched. So Angel was back on earth, but for some reason he was Human, and he didn’t know who he was, and he was a bartender. Of all the strange things that had ever happened, this seemed slightly stranger than most. (This from the guy who had just fought a demon pig, and was recently in a dive bar talking to a guy who may or may not have been Merlin’s son.) “Uh … sorry, you just look like a guy I used to know. And I’m not American, I’m Canadian.”

“Oh, sorry about that. I didn’t catch the accent.”

“It’s okay.” He really didn’t know, did he? What had they done to him - and who could have possibly done something like this? He held his hand out, and said, “The name’s Logan.”

Angel shook his hand, and it was weird to feel that he had warm skin again. “Liam. So what can I get you, Logan?”

“A pint of the strongest stuff you have. And I mean the good stuff, not the weaker stuff you give to the tourists. I can take it.” Liam? He’d heard someone call him that once. That must have been his real name, before he’d become a vampire. At least he remembered that.

Angel/Liam smirked, and went to retrieve a clean mug. “Ah, so you’re more than a tourist, are you?”

“Yeah. I’ve been to Dublin a lot, but I have to say, I’ve never seen this place before. How new are you?” He’d lie as much as he had to to figure this out. What the hell had happened to Angel?

“Oh, I just opened this place two weeks ago. Can you believe it? Business is through the roof. I’m already going to make a profit. It’s almost too good to be true, y’know?”

“Really? You a lucky guy?” He pulled out some money and put it on the bar, happy to be shedding some European money. He never did remember to get this stuff exchanged properly.

Angel chuckled, and returned with a pint of some beer so dark it was virtually black, with a thick head of foam you could have stood a pencil up in. ”You know, I’m beginning to think so. I mean, first I get an inheritance from an Uncle I don’t even know, and then I find this place, which I get for a steal, and the renovation came in under budget, which I’ve been told never happens -”

“An Uncle?”

“Yeah. Uncle Robert in Australia. I’m been looking into whether I have any more relatives in Australia, but I don’t know.”

That was it - his answer in a nutshell. Bob.

Hadn’t Bob said he couldn’t turn him Human? That if he got rid of the demon, Angel would still be a dead Human, just not an animate one. Was he lying? Or had the “Powers That Be” finally paid Angel back, and Bob just chipped in some money, because money meant bupkis to Bob. They took his memory of being undead, in exchange for a charmed life? It seemed unfair, but then again, Logan knew if he could trade some of his memories for a better life, he just might do it. As it was, he simply had his memories ripped away, and his life was no better for it. In fact, it could hardly be worse most of the time.

So what had happened to Fred and Spike? Were they walking around somewhere, Human again and oblivious? Or did the bargain only apply to Angel? He wanted to ask, but he knew he couldn’t. He’d have to ask Bob; he’d most likely have the answer. Whether he’d give it to him was another story entirely.

Angel went off to serve other customers - he was doing a good business - and Logan nursed his stout, which he knew was incredible. He couldn’t feel the alcohol, no, but he just knew from taste, texture, and how it initially hit his system that this was the good stuff, the stuff that would floor the novice or unwary. You had to love Irish beer.

And this place too. It was really quite pleasant, sitting here with a good beer, the Black Keys playing almost subliminally in the background, people talking softly, sometimes punctuated by the silvery sound of laughter. The atmosphere of the place was relaxed, but not depressed; if anything, he almost felt good, and that almost never happened when he was drinking in a bar. Maybe that’s why customers were already flocking here; maybe Angel’s place just bled good vibes. A strange gift from the Powers That Be, if they were indeed responsible. Somehow he thought fellow bar owner Bob might be; certainly Angel would never know if he’d met him or if he’d ever even been here.

He caught Angel looking at him a couple of times, mostly from the corner of his eye, and he tried to formulate a good lie in his head - who was Angel? But honestly, he didn’t know what he’d say. All the lies seemed phony, no matter how he tried to dress it up or play it down. He could play drunk, though. If he was drunk, he wouldn’t expect him to make sense.

Finally, Angel came back down to him, and said, “You look so familiar to me. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

Okay, he hadn’t expected that. Was that just a little joke that Bob left behind? The stolen memory equivalent of an Easter egg? “No, I don’t think so.”

Angel’s brown eyes brimmed over with skepticism. “Are you sure? Have you … have you ever been on t.v.?”

“Not deliberately.”

Angel’s brow furrowed, and he scratched his head, mussing his black hair. It wasn’t moussed up, it was flat and natural, and it looked better on him than he thought it would. He was more accustomed to him having the pointy hair. “Huh. You’re not local, obviously. Staying nearby?”

“No, I just got in.”

The door opened again, which was hardly a new occurrence since it had been opening steadily all night, but for some reason Logan felt the need to look, and instantly he knew why: it was Meldane, strolling in casually, still in sports coat and sunglasses, an unlit cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth.

Angel must have seen the look on his face and interpreted it correctly, because he asked, “Is he trouble?”

“No, just an asshole.”

Meldane slid on the leather barstool beside him, and Angel asked amicably, “What can I get you?” Only because he had knew how he treated most of his customers did he notice the slightest bit of wariness on Angel’s part.

“Glenlivet,” Meldane said coolly, finally the pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and sticking it in his pocket. As soon as Angel went to get his drink, Logan leaned over and whispered harshly, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m not a fool. This was just destination one, wasn’t it? I came here to get a drink, and make sure you get out of the British Isles. That was the deal, no?”

“Actually, no. The deal was for me to get the fuck out of London.”

Meldane shrugged a single shoulder. “I changed the rules a bit.”

“You really are an asshole.”

That only made him smile. Jackass.

Once Angel returned with Meldane’s glass of Scotch, Logan gulped down the dregs of his beer and stood up, feeling full if not exactly drunk. Not only did they make stronger beer, they served them in huge glasses. “I guess I gotta get moving. But it was nice meeting you … Liam. Continued good luck with the place.”

“Thanks. Drop by whenever you’re in the neighborhood.”

“I will.” Did he mean it? He wasn’t sure. Part of him thought he should check up on him once in a while, make sure he was okay. But on the other hand, Angel was out; he was out of the strange, dark life that hid just beneath the surface of the waking world, and who could envy him the peace? The more he hung around, the more he was certain he would get Angel inadvertently sucked back into it again. Angel had earned his life away from all that, and far be it from him to taint or risk it in any way.

Logan then slapped Meldane on the back, much harder than necessary, and said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

Meldane looked back at him, scowling in disdain, and then said something in an arcane language, making a slight gesture with his hand. The entire bar seemed to freeze, and Logan could just make out a sort of pearlescent shimmer surrounding him and Meldane, the only two still capable of movement. Meldane’s teleportation spell was different from Rags’s or Amaranth’s or even Bob’s; according to him, travel was very easy when you slipped between “the spaces in reality”, and supposedly that’s what he did. Logan wasn’t convinced he was telling him the truth, but as long as he got him where he needed to go in one piece, he didn’t care.

But before getting on with it, Meldane asked, “So, did you find what you were looking for here?”

He gave him a sour look for even trying to pry into his business, but he knew it would have no effect on him. Meldane lacked a lot of things, but not sheer gall. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“This pub is absolutely lousy with enchantments. Do you know why that is?”

“No clue. Is that why it seems nicer than your average bar?”

“Undoubtedly. It’s all positive enchantments. Someone powerful is looking out for the owner, I can tell you that much.” He eyed him dubiously. “But even if you knew who did it and why, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

Logan shrugged, and then decided to fall back on a position that even Meldane couldn’t argue with. “I dunno. I’m just the muscle.”

His frosty blue eyes narrowed to slits, and Logan couldn’t help but smirk. What, Meldane thought he was the only asshole around here?

Once he told him the location where he wanted to go, reality seemed to compress to a single point of light in the surrounding darkness, and then he seemed to be spit out, light rushing in to fill the gap, and he found himself outside Xavier’s, a few feet from one of the side entrances. Should he have come back here? Even now he wasn’t sure, but it was better than letting Meldane know he had a place in Vancouver. He really didn’t want him dropping by unannounced.

Although everything looked normal on the outside, as soon as he touched the doorknob, he had the strangest sensation something was wrong. He remembered that nightmare he had about coming back to the school and finding it awash in blood, so he took a deep breath, carefully parsing smells, searching for the merest hint of blood. He didn’t find any, and the strong, cloying scent of a lilac bush growing on the southeastern side of the house made him sneeze. It had to be nothing but his usual paranoia, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong.

He went inside carefully, quietly, keeping his senses on full alert as he crept down the auxiliary corridor leading out to the kitchen. He had just about reached the bend in the corridor when he heard an odd creak, a strange noise, and therefore wasn’t that surprised when something large and metal came flying at his face.