8

Yasha didn’t believe he had a motorcycle that could get them to Los Angeles within hours, but as soon
as the sun had set - and she had found him some clothes (did he really want to know why she got him a t-shirt advertising “McClennon’s Meat Market”?) - he led her out to it, and advised her to hold on tight, as he’d never had a passenger on board when he kicked the bike up into turbo, or whatever the fuck it was called.

She held on very tight, and she screamed when he engaged the engine, but it wasn’t a scream of fear, but one of triumphant joy - she loved it.  His kind of woman.

She was obviously accustomed to riding or driving (probably driving) bikes as well; she knew to hold on but not restrict his movement, and she knew to move precisely with him, so as not to throw off the balance (especially at this velocity). Yes, he could easily love this woman.

They made great time, as he suspected they would, and it was just past midnight by the time they got
to Los Angeles.  For a long time along the green coast of the Pacific Northwest, they’d had the moon dogging them, seemingly following them, but as soon as they neared the L.A. basin, it disappeared
behind a vaguely yellowish curtain of smog.  It almost seemed like an omen.

He had called The Way Station in hopes that Bob was hanging around there, but no, he got the eternally tetchy Lia, who told him in no uncertain terms that he hadn’t been around as of late, and somehow that was Logan's fault.  He then called Bob’s Sydney place, only to get his voice mail. Rather than break the phone - which occurred to him - he decided to go to his secondary source of demon information - Wesley.

That delivered its own shocks as well. Wes’s answering machine now had a message about “business related inquiries” to his number at Wolfram and Hart.  The fucks who tried to brainwash him!  Well, after chewing him a new one at his “business phone”, Wesley explained - fairly lamely - that Angel had taken over. Or been given it, but didn’t really trust anyone.

As it was, Wes thanked him for the fruit basket (which puzzled him, until he guessed Bob sent him one and put his name on it), and then added he was glad he called, because he had found some records on “mutant organizations” in the archives, and while he was still trying to crack some of the coding, he was pretty sure the records pertained to the Organization.  He thought he might want them.  Logan feared it might be a trap, but Wes was right - he wanted those files.  So to L.A. they'd gone.  He briefed Yasha on all he knew about Wolfram and Hart, and Angel and his friends, just in case.  Ironically, while she had heard of Angel, she had never encountered him.

It wasn’t difficult to find the Wolfram and Hart building. Of course he remembered it from the last time he was here (he'd dangled a lawyer out a window, hadn’t he?), but it was such an ostentatious skyscraper, a missile of glass and steel always primed for launching, and a phallic symbol without compare. Unless you went around to the next block - this entire section of L. A. was an urban canyon of skyscrapers, a shiny monument to heartless capitalism.  And then there was that undercurrent of pure-blooded evil, which everyone seemed oblivious to, proving that wealth and power, up to a certain point, caused a special kind of blindness.

In a bit of pointless defiance, Logan parked the bike on part of their neatly manicured lawn, just North of their pretentious sign, and he and Yasha approached the massive glass doors, together but at a distance from each other, keeping a good fighting distance between them.  Logan sensed eyes briefly scud over them, but saw no one.  His hands clenched into fists almost involuntarily.

She stopped near the door, but he went on ahead - also part of the plan.  He pushed open the door and sauntered inside, feeling like he was looking for trouble.

It was remarkable how fast he found it.

Waiting in the large, gilded foyer to meet him was a squadron of ten commandos, dressed in their best ninja black, most leveling surprisingly sleek and sophisticated automatic weapons at him, or old-fashioned but still highly effective pump action shotguns.  Save for one, standing slightly farther back and directly in his line of sight, holding what looked like a long barreled dart gun leveled on his chest. “That’s far enough,” the Filipino dart gun-wielding commando said.  Logan guessed he was the leader. “Turn around and leave quietly, and you won’t have to get a half ton of lead in you.”

Logan gave him a sharp smirk. “You actually think that will stop me?”

The commando’s dark eyes were as hard as flint. “Yeah - even your pain tolerance isn’t that good.  But mostly, that part would be for fun.  This would stop you.”  He waggled the dart gun ever so slightly. “Quoiiza demon toxin, something you couldn’t possibly have been exposed to. With your system it would paralyze you for about, oh, twenty five hours, to be generous.  Just think how much fun we could have with you in twenty five hours.”  He gave him a razorblade grin to match his own. “Walk away.  Last chance.”

The door opened behind him, and Yasha said, “Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

To give credit to the rent-a-death-squad, only half of them trained their sites on her, while the rest kept their bead on him. Certainly commando boy never wavered. Yasha held up the back of her hand, and you could clearly see the flash of silver in between her fingers.  But the silver was near the base of her fingers, no more - but then again, some throwing knives just weren’t very big at all.  A machine one of the commandos’ had on bleeped, and she said coolly, “Yes, I’m a vampire, and maybe you should keep that in mind.  Do you think your reflexes are so good that you can pull the trigger before I throw?”  She was aiming that at the leader, who did have the smarts to look momentarily worried. “Would you like to bet your life on it?”

Logan had no idea how many knives she had in her hand - he didn’t ask - but all she had to do was flick her hand, and she could take down the leader and several of the men around him.  After having seen her
in action in Japan, he knew he could count on her to take at least half the group in no time flat.  He had to admit, this woman was good.  Probably why she carried the Blood name around like a battle flag.

There was a moment of tense silence, feeling like the calm before the storm, when suddenly a familiar voice exclaimed angrily: “What the fuck is going on here?!”

The commandos suddenly lost their nerve as Angel strode into the marble tiled lobby, Wesley following behind him.  Angel looked the same as always -did vampires ever change? - but Wes had apparently decided to give contacts a try, as well as five o’clock shadow, and a scruffier hair style.  It looked like he needed more sleep.  It also looked like the past year or so had been very unkind to him, and he had hardened as a result.

The leader turned partially to face him, but never took his weapon off Logan. “This man is top of the list, sir.”

Sir?  He really was the boss around here, wasn’t he?

Angel frowned, dark brows drawing together. “List? What list?”

“Gregario, “ the leader said, nodding at one of the shotgun commandos.  He slung his gun over his back, and took what looked like a Palm Pilot off his utility belt. Angel gave both him and it a skeptical look before snatching the Palm Pilot and giving it a good read.  After a few seconds, he looked up at the leader indignantly. “A contain and kill list?”

“Standard protocols are - “

“I’m number six on this list!” Angel interrupted, throwing the Palm Pilot on the floor.  It broke into a hundred different pieces, hard copy garbage. Then a slightly indignant look crossed Angel’s chiseled face. “Why am I only number six?”

“We ignored your name,” the leader said, as if that explained everything.

Angel glared at him, his brown eyes almost glowing with hate. “This goes away, now.”

The leader seemed confused. “What?”

“The list - as of now, it’s gone.  Is that understood?”

“I- is that wise?  I mean - ”

“Do it, or your replacement will do it,” Angel snapped.

That did it. Very reluctantly, he lowered the weapon, and the commandoes followed his lead, lowering their weapons and shuffling off awkwardly, shoulders rounded and heads ducked low in shame. “Sorry,” Angel said to Logan, as he watched them go. “I’m still new here, and they didn’t exactly leave me an instruction manual on how to run a formerly evil empire.”

“ ’S okay. I was hardly quakin’ in my boots.”

“Yeah, I know.” Angel cast a final harsh glance at the commandoes, then turned to face him.  He was still unlike a lot of vampires he had encountered, in the fact that Angel was roughly the size and shape of a football player - well, those before the invention of steroids.  Not lean and anemic like several he had killed, but surprisingly broad shouldered and sturdy.   He was still far too pale, though, and the dark clothes he insisted on wearing didn’t help. His gaze scudded to Yasha - who had pocketed her knives - and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do I know you?”  He asked, his voice taking on a icy edge.

As usual, Yasha met his gaze fearlessly, with a coldness greater than his own. “Not personally, no.  But I am Chishio Hime.”

Angel’s eyes widened, and suddenly blazed with anger, while Wes looked mildly shocked. “Lady Blood?” Wes said. “Really?  I’d heard you were taller.”

“Killer of The Order of the Templar?” Angel asked, although it hardly sounded like a question.

Logan gave her a sidelong glance. “Order of the Templar?”

“An ancient religious order dedicated to eradicating vampires,” Angel told him, never taking his eyes off her.

Yasha just shrugged, her face an icy mask. “They tried to kill me.  I’d never have bothered them if they’d left me alone.”

“Every single one of them?” Angel said, spitting the words out like pellets.  How many were there among the Templars?

Her face remained expressionless, eyes defiant. “They were very much into vengeance.  It was self-defense.”

Angel snorted in disbelief, but Logan felt she was right - if she was indeed telling them everything. Maybe Angel felt full force could only be used on demons - and the X-Men seemed to think it couldn’t be used on anyone - but Logan was of the opinion that if someone attacked you, meaning to do serious harm, they were declaring war - and all was fair in love and war.  That was probably the major dividing line between him and them, and always would be.  But absolutes like that had a tendency to come back on you and smack you in the face - which he thought Xavier’s crew would have figured out by now.

“Besides,” she added, with casual disdain. “That’s ancient history, Angelus.”

The use of that name made him briefly flinch. “That’s not my name anymore.”

“Oh, is that ancient history as well?”

Zing. She was so good at it, Logan almost laughed. Wesley briefly lifted his eyebrows, a tacit “That must have hurt”. Angel was hardly amused; his eyes continued to narrow, and the muscles in his jaw worked like they were trying to break through his skin.  The tension was unbelievably thick, and Logan suddenly wondered if she was going to be forced to use her knives on Angel -if she even bothered with knives. Shit - who knew vamps could have pissing contests?

“Hey, she’s cool,” he told him. “She’s with me.”

Angel’s eyes snapped back to him, and while some of the suspicion was gone, the intensity remained. “Why?”

He glared back at him, not appreciating his tone of voice. “Because she helped me and she saved my life, Angel. What, do you think you’re the only vampire who can turn over a new leaf?”

“Yeah, he does, actually,” A vaguely familiar, and slightly Cockney, voice said.  Angel groaned and rolled his eyes, as if it was bad news, and a peroxide-blonde man in a long leather coat - who was also slightly transparent at the edges - started walking across the lobby towards him.  He was lean and almost frail, with sharp cheekbones threatening to cut through a rather arrogant looking face.  Didn’t he look familiar?

“Go away, Spike,” Angel said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, right, watch me vroom,” he replied sarcastically.  He gave Logan a scrutinizing glance, then said, “You know, sideburns went out with disco.  Or are they still big in the gay scene?”

Logan stared at him, and finally placed the face. “I killed you.”

That seemed to puzzle everyone. “What?” Angel asked.

Spike scoffed. “You wish.”

“No, I did, in another dimension.  I cut your head off.”

“If only you could do that now,” Angel muttered under his breath.

“Hey, I heard that,” Spike replied angrily.

Wes had started coming towards him, holding a sealed folder that must have been the files he mentioned on the phone, and Yasha asked him, “Your building is haunted too?”

Wes stopped short, and he got a sudden sense that he was still unsure - and therefore nervous - of her. But Wes kept his “stiff upper lip” front up, and they could almost see his face set like concrete. “No, not exactly. It’s a long story.” Wes kept the corner of his eye on her as he handed him the folder. “Here is all I could find for now.  It seems to be written in a sort of code that no one seems to have the translation key for - you’ll understand when you see it.  But perhaps you can make more sense of it than I’ve been able to.”

He nodded, taking the file gratefully. “Thank you.” He meant it too.

Wes just nodded, accepting the thanks with an almost dismissive air, which struck Logan as quintessentially upper-crust British. “If anything else comes up, I’ll let you know.  Their archives are massive. I think it’ll take me years to get through even a third of it.”

“Why would a demon-run place like this have any interest in mutants?” Yasha wondered, genuinely curious.

Wes seemed slightly startled that she’d talk to him, but he was civil to her, in spite of his not trusting her. Maybe it was a demon hunter thing - he used to be a Watcher, and the Order of the Templars were demon hunters.  Maybe he felt a certain camaraderie in spirit if nothing else. “Demons infiltrated the Organization, and may have had some hand in guiding the Organization and its principals.  They viewed mutants as a very real potential threat to their way of life.”

Yasha nodded in understanding. “Humans alone were easy pickings.  Ones who could … well, cut your head off, were a different animal altogether.”

“Exactly. And pitting Humans against other Humans was a nice side benefit.”

“Oh god, he’s one of them freaks?” Spike exclaimed with a scoff. “Well, that explains the hair.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Angel snapped, giving Spike a look that could have stripped paint from the wall.

But the vampire…ghost…whatever the fuck he was not only was completely unfazed, but looked slightly amused. “No.”

Angel turned back to face him, but the scowl he had for Spike seemed to melt off his face, and his look softened slightly. Maybe he was tired of fighting everyone, or decided Yasha couldn’t possibly be as bad as Spike at the moment. “How’re you doing?  We heard about that mess a few months back.”

“I’m good,” he lied, although Logan really wasn’t sure it was a lie.  For him, this was a positive bright spot in his life. “You?”

Angel sighed, running a hand through his hair nervously. “Well, things have been pretty strange lately - ”

“While you ladies catch up on things, why don’t me and the bird get to know each other?” Spike interrupted, walking around Angel and heading towards Yasha. “What’re you doing with this fashion disaster, babe?”

Yasha eyed him coldly. “Better than you. What’s it like to be dead in two ways at the same time?”

That seem to stop Spike in his swaggering tracks. “Hey.”

Wes sighed, and walked around Spike like he was pile of dog shit on the floor. “That’s Lady Blood you’re clumsily hitting on.  I really wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Wow, you’re Blood?” Spike looked impressed. “Good job on those Templar idiots.  Those buggers were always askin’ for it.”

The door opened behind them, and both Logan and Yasha turned instantly, tensing for a fight.  But what slipped in the door was unexpected but not necessarily hostile - well, exactly.  It was a thin line.

“Hello-”

“-Logan,” the Weird Sisters volleyed, as they split around the crowd of them and entered the spacious lobby of the building.

Angel and Wesley visibly tensed, each picking a twin to keep an eye on, and unconsciously moving into a position where they could protect each other’s back, while Spike backed up, suddenly looking panicked. “Whoa,” he said, continuing to attempt back away from them.  But he must have realized that that was pointless, and seemed to hide behind Angel instead. “What are these crazy bitches doing here?”

“Hello-”

“-to-”

“-you, too-”

“-Spike,” the Sisters said, giving him those stereo bright, empty smiles that promised death more assuredly than any sneer.

If a vampiric ghost could be said to pale, Spike did.

“What are you two doing here?” Angel asked, pained and wary.

“We-”

“-didn’t-”

‘-come for-”

“-you, Daddy-”

“-we came for-”

“-Logan.”

“Daddy?” Logan exclaimed, turning a sharp glare on Angel, who was so mortified he looked down and hid his face by rubbing his eyes. “You … created them?”

“No … just Belinda. I didn’t even want to do it … it’s a long story,” Angel mumbled towards the floor. The Sisters were walking in perfect, concentric circles around all of them, in opposite directions, and he couldn’t shake the impression of sharks circling their prey, enjoying the taste of their fear.  Their eyes - one silver-gray, one hazel-gold - gleamed, seemingly with their own internal light.

Logan wasn’t sure he followed that. “If you only turned one, who turned the other?”

“I-”

‘-did,” the Sisters volunteered, then gleefully added, “My-”

“-mother-”

‘-my sister-”

“-my grandmother.”

“What is it with you and crazy women?” Spike asked Angel, still attempting to use him as a human shield.

Yasha leaned in, and whispered in his ear. “These are really them?  I expected … something else.”

“Don’t let their appearance fool you,” he whispered back. “They’re screaming death on wheels.”

And they were. They didn’t look like much - appearing sixteen was a hindrance, as was their penchant for awful clothing.  Today was no exception: long silver leather coats, paired up with blue tie dyed shirts studded with multicolored crystals (there seemed to be a horse and rider on the shirts - an ad for an equestrian center?), jeans with appliquéd flames on the legs, and red and black leopard spotted boots. Their chestnut colored shoulder length hair was held back in loose ponytails at the nape of their necks, and it made them look younger than usual, along with their awkwardly loud clothes.  But Logan was starting to wonder if it was camouflage, a way to lure potential victims into a false sense of confidence.  If they ever noticed how empty their eyes were, he couldn’t see anyone falling for it.

“What are you doing here?” Angel asked again, exasperated.

“We’re-”

“-not-”

“-here for-”

“-you, Angel-”

“-we came for-”

“-Logan.”

That made Angel and Wes look sharply between them. No one noticed that Spike seemed to have disappeared into thin air. “I hope that wasn’t a threat,” Angel warned them.

“Yeah, girls, me too,” Logan agreed.

Their glitter painted lips pulled back into a mockery of a smile, all teeth, the surface as shiny as their eyes. “We-”

“-wouldn’t-”

“-threaten you-”

“-Logan. We-”

“-like you. You-”

“-have pretty nipples.”

Logan shook his head, wondering if he’d ever live that down, while Yasha tried to hide a laugh in a cough, and Angel exclaimed, “What?”

“We did a job for Bob together,” he said, hoping that explained everything. “I took my shirt off around ‘em.  A mistake I won’t repeat.”

“He-”

“-took-”

“-us to-”

“-Mexico. He’s-”

“-pretty all over.” They volunteered, continuing to circle, continuing to leer at them all.  They were doing this on purpose.

“Bob?” Angel grimaced, and split glances between the Weirds. “You work for Bob now?”

“We-”

“-love-”

“-Bob. Everybody-”

“-loves Bob.”

“Not everybody,” Logan objected.  He could start naming names if forced.

The Sisters shrugged in stereo, the exact same movement at the exact same time.  They were creepy enough to make him want to take off running, and bizarrely he admired that.  They had honed the inexplicably eerie to an astonishingly effective weapon. “Everybody-”

“-who-”

“-counts.” They replied.

“Why do you want me?” He asked, deciding a conversation with the Weirds was honestly the last thing
he needed. Could he ask for the gun wielding commandoes back instead?

“We-”

“-were-”

“-at the-”

“-Way Station-”

“-we heard you-”

“-ask Lia about-”

“-the Vantha. So-”

“-we decided to-”

“-look into it for-”

“-you. We found something-”

“-we thought you might-”

“-like to see.” They explained, never once stopping their circling.

“The Vantha?” Wesley asked, looking at him. He was trying to keep the Sisters in his peripheral vision, but that was a losing proposition.

It suddenly occurred to Logan that in all the cussing and discussing of files, he had forgotten to mention the main reason why he’d called Wes in the first place. “Oh, yeah.  It’s some kinda demon mob I ran afoul of in Japan. Seems they wanna kill me now.  Thought I’d introduce myself to them personally.”  He didn’t bother to ask how the Sisters had found him, because he had learned to accept that they were, in a general and a specific sense, inexplicable.  They were Bob’s perfect soldiers, because they were as unpredictable as he was, and no one had any fucking clue exactly what all their powers were, and where they stopped.

Angel raised an eyebrow at that. “Do you think that wise?”

He held his hands out in an open shrug. “Think I got anything to worry about it?”

“It’s still possible -” Angel began, but never got a chance to finish.

“I’m with him,” Yasha interrupted. “We’ve beaten their splinters before - I’d be interested to see if they have any new tricks.”

Angel scrutinized her, and it was clear he didn’t trust - and didn’t like -her, even though he didn’t know her.  It made Logan wonder anew just exactly how many people had been in the Order of the Templar.
“If you hurt him …” Angel began, leaving the threat unspoken.

“Logan can take care of himself,” She countered breezily. “I wouldn’t be with him if he couldn’t.”

It was a compliment, and Logan knew it.  But Angel still seemed suspicious.

“Come-”

“-on-”

“-we don’t-”

“-have all-”

“-night,” the Sisters complained with odd cheer.

“Do you have a cell phone?” Wes asked him. “I can call you if I find something.”

“No, but I should be at the Way Station, if you wanna call me there.  Thanks.”

“No problem, just take care of yourself.”

“You, too.” Logan then looked at Angel with the smallest of shrugs. “Good luck with the evil empire.”

“Thanks, I think I’ll need it.  Keep in touch.”

Why were goodbyes always so awkward between them?  Well, Logan found them awkward in general, but Angel must have as well, and together it was just a bad mix.

As Logan followed the Weirds out the door of Wolfram and Hart, he wondered what they had found,
and why it was so important they show him it now.

If it was another head, he was going to find someone to sue.

9

His best guess was that he was twenty two kilometers south-southeast of Uluru, but distances were so hard to pinpoint in these really desolate, flat parts of the Never Never, he usually didn’t bother.

Just like temperature. It was probably a hundred something, and gods knew all the moisture felt like it had been wicked from his body already, running down his skin in rivulets. The sun glared overhead like it was in the final stage of a nova, and washed the color of the broad sky out to a white meagerly enhanced by tinges of blue.

Bob was glad he didn’t sunburn, as he had stripped down to a tank top and walking shorts, but he was still too hot.  Should have gone with a speedo.  At least he was bare foot - he devolved calluses hard enough to take the burning sand and the occasional jagged rocks; the insects and reptiles that bothered being out here were of no threat to him.  He knew that from experience - this was hardly his first time wandering in the deserted part of the Outback.  He owned part of it, but since he had it and never did anything with it (and never intended to - most of this land had been strip mined or tourist exploited enough), he was never positive where the boundaries were.

“Ransom paid the devil,” he sang, trying to fill the broiling silence with his own voice. “He whispers pleasing words. Triumphant are the angels if they can get there first.”  He would have rather been home resting up; he had a big battle ahead.  But he sensed the aberrant use of energy out here - huge, malevolent, and familiar (and not tourists complaining that the desert was hot and dusty, and there was nothing here) - and he knew the throw-down was on.  He was too late, but he wanted to see what message had been left for him.

The air shimmered so much in the glare it was hard to tell if he was seeing an optical illusion or not.  It was a black line on the desert floor, moving with a sinuous grace but never going anywhere, and the air had a thick hum, like high tension power lines.  A bloody shame there weren’t any around here.

The wind shifted towards him, and he smelled … carnage.

Blood, death, spilled organs, the scent of raw meat being baked in the desert sun.  The line of black on the sand glistened, nearly fidgeting with movement as the thousand upon thousands of flies fed on the remains spread out over the desert. It wasn’t just flies either, although they were the largest contingent of insect life, and responsible for the buzzing. Bob could not see the end of the line; he only saw that it reached out in either direction.

Bob closed his eyes and mentally projected himself above the scene.

For about a mile in the flat desert, body parts were strewn about; people ripped completely apart, so their entire bodies could be used in the construction. The pieces were put out in the shape of a snake, its mouth wide and gaping, as if frozen in mid-strike. And the glittering carapaces of the flies and the beetles consuming this unexpected banquet made it look like it had feathers as well as scales.

The feathered serpent.  The mark of Camaxtli.

The motherfucking bastard. Striking and taunting him in his own “back yard”.  He bet he got some real jollies out of doing this.

This was a challenge as much as it was a put down.  A symbolic “Find me if you can, asshole”.  Cammy was so certain he’d won this round, he'd decided to leave a calling card.

Bob came back to himself and opened his eyes, so angry he felt strangely cold, even in this baking heat.

Cammy thought it was all over?  He hadn’t even begun.

Only now he had to nail that through his thick cranium - preferably before he killed him.  If he could ever think of a way to kill him without hurting Jean.

Damn it. Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.